


Fellowship

by meverri



Series: The End of All Things (Magnus Archives - LotR AU) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Lord of the Rings Fusion, Background Michael Shelley/Gerry Keay, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Implied or unrequited Tim Stoker/Sasha James, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26140423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meverri/pseuds/meverri
Summary: After Gertrude Robinson is mysteriously murdered, Jon takes on the task of carrying the Watcher's Crown to Rivendell. He and his friends flee from avatars of the fourteen Fears, making new friends along the way, and are given the task of bringing the Watcher's Crown to Mordor to destroy it. The only trouble is, the Crown has a mind of its own—and Jon struggles to resist it.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The End of All Things (Magnus Archives - LotR AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900990
Comments: 59
Kudos: 33
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic was written for the 2020 Rusty Quill Big Bang. It's been so much fun to write, and I'm so excited to share it with you!
> 
> I'd like to thank @[cthulu-time](https://cthulu-time.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the amazing art you'll see later in this fic. It's absolutely gorgeous, and I think you're all going to love it.
> 
> I'd also like to thank @[aibari](https://aibari.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and ao3 for beta-ing this monstrosity. It was awesome to finally work together! (You should all check out their fic for this event—it's posted [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/63901378))
> 
> UPDATE: Thank you also to @[localsupervoid](https://localsupervoid.tumblr.com/) for creating some lovely art for this fic! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic! It was a labor of love! If you like it, please kudos/comment, or come talk to me @[hundred-separate-lines](https://hundred-separate-lines.tumblr.com/) on tumblr about tma, lotr, or whatever else!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to @[localsupervoid](https://localsupervoid.tumblr.com/) for the awesome art in this chapter!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Alcohol, Minor character death

Summer had come to the Shire at last. The green grass was soft underfoot, as gentle as the breeze that danced through the air, bringing with it the scent of wildflowers and tilled earth. The skies were blue and filled with clouds that drifted lazily about. Children wove daisy crowns and danced through the streets in preparation for the midsummer holiday. The old dozed; the young worked; everything was peaceful and good.

Not that Jonathan Sims would have known. His summer habits were no different than his winter ones. He awoke before the sun rose—quite the feat, in those long days of summer—and trudged down the lane to the Shire’s old archives, where he dutifully toiled until after the sun had set. The only variation in his routine was the thickness of his jacket and the presence or lack of an old woolen hat, a gift from his gardener that had kept him from catching his death of cold for at least the past three winters. Jon, bless him, had never thanked the man for it, but he was still willing to wear it, and that was quite enough for Martin Blackwood.

On the eve of the midsummer feast, Jonathan was down in the archive basement again, digging through a waterlogged box of paper and finding the documents that needed to be replaced. The head archivist, Gertrude Robinson, sat beside him, dutifully copying down an old deed that had been damaged in a spring flood. They worked in a quiet tandem, satisfied with the comfortable silence that came from years of friendship.

Jon had been very young when his parents had died in a boating accident. His grandmother hadn’t been keen on raising another child, but there had been no one else to take him. He’d grown up a lonely child in the country, kept company only by books, until his grandmother had died, leaving him her house. He’d sold it immediately and moved to the Shire, and his job application to the town archive had been accepted within a week. He’d been working there ever since, though he’d only become one of Gertrude’s close assistants in the last couple of years. Still, the two got on like a house on fire, and Jon liked to think that Gertrude would ask him to take over when she eventually retired.

A knock at the door brought Jon out of his thoughts. A young man stepped in, his blonde hair falling down around his cheeks in ringlet curls that made even Jon jealous. He handed a sheaf of paper over to Gertrude with a smile.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said. Michael Shelley had only been working in the archives for a few months. He had a bad habit of leaving his red cardigan in the archives. Jon was beginning to suspect he was doing it on purpose, if only because of—

“Hey, guys?” asked a voice from the back. “I’ve found another one with water damage. Where are we putting it?”

“Bring it here,” said Jon resignedly.

Gerry Delano was a short, broad-shouldered hobbit with badly-dyed black hair that hung in greasy strings around his face. He had a permanent scowl that occasionally lifted into a smirk. Every time he spoke to Michael, Michael would erupt into nervous, grating laughter, which did little to improve Jon’s mood but seemed to make Gerry much cheerier.

Jon hated working with them.

Gerry dropped the box in front of them and exaggeratedly wiped the sweat off his brow. He met Michael’s eye and smirked. Michael giggled. Jon tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

“Right,” said Gerry. “Think I’m off for today. Anyone fancy the Green Dragon for a half-pint?”

“Oh, ah, that sounds fun,” said Michael. “Uh, would either of you care to join us?”

Jon scowled, but Gertrude shoved at his arm. “Go have fun,” she said. “I’m expecting a visitor soon. I don’t need you moping down here next to me.”

“But the deeds—” Jon began, only to be hauled to his feet by Gerry in a feat of strength that stole the words from his throat.

“None of that,” said Gerry. “C’mon. Besides, I think your boy’s usually there on Fridays.”

“My what?” Jon scoffed, but he was already being firmly escorted out the door.

“Lord,” said Gertrude. “Youth is wasted on the wrong people.”

  


* * *

  


The Green Dragon was always lively around the end of the week, but it was even more so before holidays. Gerry crept to the bar for drinks and brought them back to the table, cursing as he set them down.

“Nearly lost one,” he said, passing them around. “Anyway, cheers to another year in the archives.”

“Cheers,” said the rest of them absently.

Jon peered around the room as Gerry and Michael began to flirt rather obnoxiously. He felt his stomach drop as he accidentally met eyes with Martin from across the room. Martin’s expression brightened, and he began to head toward the table. Jon tried not to scowl.

The truth of the matter was, Jon had spent a very, very long time hating Martin. Martin had apparently been the gardener at Bag End since before the previous inhabitant had left (very mysteriously, and no one in town would say anything about it—there were rumors that he had been close with Gertrude, but she refused to say anything about it). Jon kept him on because his rates were good and it felt like the right thing to do, and not because he had often heard Martin chatting quietly with the bees while he worked, oblivious to Jon’s watchful eye on the other side of the kitchen window. As Martin approached, Jon quickly realized that the only remaining seat was the one next to him. He tried to ignore it when Martin’s leg brushed very lightly against his own, but couldn’t quite manage to get it out of his head.

“All right, Martin?” Gerry asked, giving him a smile.

Martin blushed a bit at the attention, which made Jon want to commit murder, or possibly arson. “I’m all right,” he said. “And you?”

The two of them struck up a friendly conversation, which they roped Michael into fairly quickly. Jon buried his face in his drink for a while before finally allowing Michael to draw him in with a well-aimed question about the old books he’d found in his home when he moved, which led to several hours of debate over the whereabouts of the mysterious owner, and then a conversation about Michael’s sister, who had sold the property, and then the state of the small library in Hobbiton, and soon Jon found himself ranting about the properties of various waxes for almost a quarter of an hour.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly when he realized no one had stopped him.

“No,” said Martin, his face flush with alcohol. “No, it was interesting. It was really interesting.”

“Christ,” said Gerry. “Right. I think I’m done for tonight.” He glanced at Michael. “Care to walk me home?”

Michael stuttered a response and pulled on his sweater, leaving Jon and Martin sitting beside each other.

“Well,” said Jon, just as Martin said “Anyway…”

“Oh,” said Jon.

“Sorry,” said Martin. “I mean, uh, go ahead.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Jon stuttered. “You first.”

“Right,” said Martin. “Uh, I was just going to say it was getting late. Maybe we should go.”

Jon stared at him blankly for a moment before the words made it past his ears and into his head. “Oh, yes,” said Jon. “Of course. Yes.”

“Unless you don’t want to…?”

“No, it’s really fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Jon tried not to let too much annoyance creep into his voice as he said “Yes, Martin. I’m quite sure.” From the look on Martin’s face, he was fairly certain he had failed.

“Right,” said Martin. “Um… I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay. Night, then.”

Jon gave him a thin smile. “Good night, Martin.”

The walk home was colder than Jon had expected. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly wishing he had brought a jacket to the archives that morning. The night sky was clear and star-filled, broken only by the slightest sliver of the moon. As he walked, a small group of fireflies flitted through the bushes by the side of the lane.

He passed by the archives on the way home. The lamps inside were still lit, and Jon could hear hushed voices from within. Never one to miss a chance to eavesdrop, he slowed his step and quieted his breathing, listening with all his might.

“… power grows ever stronger,” said Gertrude. “I’ve felt its draw for the last thirty years. I think soon I shall have to leave it behind.”

“I just hope we’re wrong,” said a familiar voice that Jon hadn’t heard in years. A silhouette appeared in the window, wearing a pointed wizard’s hat. Forgetting himself, Jon flung open the door with a smile.

“Sasha!”

She whirled toward him, her dark hair whipping out as she did. “Jon!”

Gertrude looked rather grumpy to have been interrupted, but Sasha’s eyes were full of delight. She wrapped Jon in a tight embrace, laughing all the while.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” she said. “I was going to stop by in the morning. I wasn’t sure if you were asleep.”

“Gerry and Michael dragged me out,” said Jon. Sasha’s face lit up at the mention of Michael’s name.

“I’m glad they’re getting you out of this dusty basement,” she said. “Don’t want you withering away down here, eh?” Her glasses and her many rings glinted mischievously in the lamplight.

Gertrude glanced at him over her reading spectacles. “I’m sorry to interrupt the reunion,” she said, “but I really do think we need to continue this discussion, Sasha.”

“All right, all right,” said Sasha. “Listen, Jon, I’ll talk to you at the festival tomorrow, yeah?”

“Very well,” said Jon. “I’m very glad to see you again.”

“I’m glad, too,” she said. “Take care of yourself, Jon.”

Jon turned to leave, then glanced back at Sasha. As she glanced at Gertrude, her smile vanished, and Jon’s heart filled unexpectedly with fear.

  


* * *

  


The midsummer festival was a full day and night of merrymaking, complete with the finest ales and pipeweeds that could be found in the Shire. People baked for days to prepare enough pies and pastries for the whole community. Everything was shared at the festival, from food to old stories. Even Jon, for all his curmudgeonly ways, could admit that it was a rather wonderful day.

A flowery banner had been erected across the entrance to old Eric Delano’s field, where they’d held the festival in memory of his late wife for the past ten years. (Gerry tended to complain about it, if you could get him drunk enough to recount the tales of his childhood with her—apparently, she’d been rather cruel, and he didn’t feel she deserved such a nice party.) Jon arrived in the early afternoon, far later than most of the Shire, as large crowds tended to make him nervous. It wasn’t long before he was accosted by Martin, who was camped in a corner, sipping at his ale.

“Oh, Jon!” he said, nearly knocking it over. “Hi! Nice to see you here.”

“Hello, Martin,” said Jon. He cast about awkwardly for something to say, landing on, “Uh, are you having fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Martin. “I was just helping set up this morning, and then I’ve been sort of running around with everything. D’you need anything?”

“No, thank you, Martin,” said Jon. “I was just, ah, going to see Sasha. Have you seen her or Gertrude, by any chance?”

“Uh, no,” said Martin. “D’you think they’re just running late?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would have seen them. I’ll ask around.”

“Okay,” said Martin. “Um, you’re here to stay, right?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good! Because, you know, I was thinking we could get a drink—uh, with Michael and Gerry, I mean, and maybe Sasha, not just the two of us, haha, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon said distractedly, still searching the crowd for Gertrude and Sasha. “I’ll be seeing you.” He turned and began to shove through the crowd of hobbits once more.

He didn’t make it far. There was a large booth on the northern border of the property, near where he had come in, that sold beautiful pastries topped with intricate spiral designs. There were two people manning that booth. One was Michael, who was chatting with old Eric Delano by the fence. The other was his sister, Helen, who was handing out sweets to anyone who walked by with a smile and a nod.

Michael and Helen didn’t look very similar at all. In fact, they weren’t siblings by blood; their parents had married when the two were nearly twenty, and they’d instantly started to bicker like any other siblings. Contrary to Michael’s fair skin and hair, Helen’s skin was dark, and her hair was a deep black. The only similarity between the two was their hair. Both had hair that curled in tight coils around their heads. Michael kept his back in a ponytail with a fair bit of effort and oil; Helen let hers grow out around her head, leaving her with a spiral halo that could be quite disorienting if you looked at it for too long.

“Jon!” she shouted, waving him over. “Jon, over here!”

Jon rolled his eyes but made his way over to the stall. He and Helen had a somewhat tumultuous relationship; she enjoyed teasing him (though Jon likely would have said “torturing him), and he tolerated her jabs with the best humor he could muster on any given day. Often, this meant that he stormed away fuming, followed by her very distinctive cackle of victory.

It was as good a friendship as any, he supposed.

“Hi, Jon,” said Helen cheerfully when Jon arrived at her stall. “Here, try a hot cross bun.” She shoved the pastry at him forcefully and laughed when he took it and instantly swore at just how hot it was.

“Hello, Helen,” said Jon. “Have you seen Sasha?”

Helen pouted. “Don’t want to stay and talk to me, Jon? How very rude!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that. I’ll come back later, if you like. I just need to speak with Sasha.”

Helen’s pout didn’t disappear, but she pointed a long, slender finger toward an innocuous tent that was hidden behind the many barrels of ale that had been prepared for that evening. “I saw her setting up in there,” she said. “I think it’s her fireworks, but I’m not sure. She didn’t even stop and say hello.”

“Right,” said Jon. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

He made his way quickly to Sasha’s firework tent, shoving through the crowds until he was able to duck inside. Sasha was there, thank heavens—Jon was just about ready to leave the party entirely if he had to talk to one more person.

“Jon!” said Sasha as she fiddled with the fuse of a long, red rocket. “I was looking for you earlier, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. Where have you been?”

Jon sighed. “ _Socializing,_ ” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Sasha laughed. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You love it.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but he let his expression soften. “So what brings you back to the Shire?”

Sasha’s smile faded slightly around her eyes, which Jon noted and tucked away. “I needed to talk to Gertrude,” she said. “And I thought it would be nice to see everyone again. You know I miss you all when I’m on my travels.”

“Ah, your mysterious voyages,” said Jon. “Any chance we’ll get to hear some stories tonight?”

“Perhaps,” said Sasha, waggling her eyebrows.

“Speaking of Gertrude,” said Jon, “I should probably go and find her. I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Really?” Sasha asked. “She said she was planning on showing up early. Apparently, her and Eric had a bit of a fight last week, and she said she wanted to apologize before the festival really kicked off.”

“A fight?” Jon asked. “What about?”

“I don’t know. You know they haven’t been as close since Eric left the archives,” she said. “And he hasn’t been the same since the whole Mary thing, or since he lost his eyes.”

Jon hummed. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen her,” he said. “When are the fireworks?”

“Just after sundown,” said Sasha with a sparkle in her eye. “You won’t want to miss them.”

“No, I won’t,” Jon agreed. He glanced up at her. “I’ve missed you, too, you know.”

Sasha’s smile grew. “Oh, Jon!” she said, and she threw her arms around him. Jon squawked in protest as he was smothered by her flowing wizardly robes, but Sasha paid him no mind. She squeezed his shoulders tightly. “I know how hard that was for you to admit—”

“I _am_ capable of talking about my feelings, you know.”

“—and I want you to know that I’m very, very glad to have you as a friend.”

Jon laughed, then pulled away, trying to extricate himself from a truly ridiculous amount of fabric. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’m going to go and find Gertrude. I’ll meet up with you later.”

“Go on and have fun. And, hey, try not to cause any trouble.”

Jon scoffed. “I do not _cause trouble._ ”

“Sure, you don’t. Enjoy the party! Have some of Helen’s pastries. They’re delicious.”

Jon made his way out of the tent and back into the midst of the festivities. The sun burned in the sky, and the air was humid and heavy. Most of the party-goers had retreated to the relative shade of the small copse of trees in the northeast corner. Jon spotted Gerry sitting there with old Fiona Law, who was regaling a small group of children with a fairy tale that seemed to have put Gerry halfway to sleep.

“Gerard,” said Jon as he approached, “have you seen Gertrude?”

Gerry shook his head sleepily. “Figured she was with you,” he said. “She must have gotten caught up in the archives. Want me to go and look?”

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” said Jon. “I’m sure she’ll show up eventually.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Gerry. He closed his eyes once more. Jon left him to his nap.

It seemed the whole Shire had fallen into the afternoon daze. Jon took it upon himself to clean up some of the mess while everyone around him slept, then decided he could return to the archives and do some work before the fireworks that night. He doubted anyone would notice him leaving, sleepy as they all were.

When he reached the garden gate, a horrible, wriggling sort of sound brought him to a stop. He glanced around, looking for its source, and settled his gaze on a ball of silver worms that were intertwined so tightly with each other that they almost looked like one creature. Normally, Jon didn’t have a problem with worms–only spiders were enough to set him shivering–but something about the worms seemed _wrong,_ reminding him of rot and decay and illness rather than good soil and the smell of summer. He suppressed a sudden bout of nausea and carefully stepped past them, keeping his distance as best he could.

Hobbiton was largely abandoned, as everyone was at the party. The sun had settled into that lazy mid-afternoon place where everything looked a bit like a dream. Jon brushed away a bit of sweat and then paused, hearing the wriggling sound once more. There were more of those silvery worms in the soil beside the main road, though not in nearly so high a concentration as the ones by Delano’s farm. Jon hurried on.

As he rounded the last corner, he heard something that made his heart drop in his chest: a panicked scream, coming from inside the archives.

Jon ran down the lane toward the scream. As he ran, he accidentally squashed a few silver worms underfoot. The sensation of their segmented bodies bursting against his toes made him shudder, but he did not slow his speed. He flung open the heavy wooden doors to the archives with a desperate groan, shoving against years of rust that had grown across the hinges.

Martin was pressed against the wall inside the door, clutching his chest as though trying to keep his heart inside. His face was white as a sheet.

“Martin?” Jon asked.

Martin whirled around, curls bouncing against his forehead. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was wider.

“Jon!” he said, clutching one hand to his chest.

“What’s the matter?” Jon asked urgently. “I heard a shout.”

“I— it’s—”

“For God’s sake, Martin, spit it out!”

“It’s Gertrude,” Martin gasped. “Jon, she’s dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible art in this chapter was made by @cthulutime on tumblr! Thanks so much for the amazing contribution!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Blood, weapons, minor character death

The discovery of Gertrude’s body in the archives cut the midsummer festival rather short.

Jon did his best to comfort a distraught Martin on the steps of the archives as Sasha, Gerry, and Eric went inside to investigate. Michael waited beside them as well, wringing his hands and occasionally patting Martin halfheartedly on the arm. Jon simply pressed himself up against Martin’s side and let Martin cry, straining to hear what was happening inside.

After a long while, Sasha emerged. She knelt in front of Martin and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry to do this, Martin,” she said, “but can you please explain what happened?”

Martin took a shuddering breath. “I was looking for Gertrude,” he said. “Jon said he hadn’t seen her, and I asked around a bit and realized no one else had, either. I already had to go back home to grab some plates, since Emma told me there weren’t enough, and I was just passing by the institute when I saw these big, silvery worms swarming by the door. I went to go take a look and thought I heard something coming from inside. I figured it was probably Gertrude, and I was going to tell her that Jon was looking for her at the festival.”

He took another gulp of air, his eyes growing wider by the second. “It was really, really dark inside, so at first I thought I was just hearing things. Then I saw this dark shape on the ground, and I couldn’t quite tell what it was. I opened the door a bit more so I could see, and, uh, well…”

“I’m sorry, Martin, but I really need more detail than that,” said Sasha. Her voice was kind, but those sharp eyes were focused, clearly committing everything to detail.

“Right,” said Martin. “Sorry. Um, I opened the door to let in the light, and I saw Gertrude on the floor. At first I thought maybe she had fainted, or fallen, or something like that—back when my mum was still alive, she would have these, like, fainting spells? I would come home and she would be on the floor. It was awful. But, um, then I saw all the blood, so I went to take her pulse, and, uh, that’s when I realized she was dead. And I could see the wounds on her back, so I started to freak out, and when I stood up I dropped the plates, and that’s when I screamed. Then Jon came in and pulled me outside, and I guess that’s sort of it.”

Sasha nodded. “Okay, Martin. Thank you. I know that was hard.” She turned to Jon. “Have you been back inside?”

He shook his head.

“All right,” she said. “Listen. Jon, I need to speak with you inside. Michael, Martin, you can wait out here. I promise we’ll be done soon.”

Martin nodded despondently. Michael offered him another hesitant pat.

Jon followed Sasha back into the archives. Someone had lit the lanterns, which cast a dull glow about the dusty corners and shelves full of parchment. Gertrude was still lying on the floor, but the blood around her was now dry; the air still smelled of iron, a salty metal tang that nearly made Jon retch.

“Jon,” said Sasha, her voice low and urgent, “I don’t know what killed Gertrude, but I do know why.”

Jon frowned. “What?”

“I can’t explain much now. I have my suspicions, but they’ll need to be confirmed. In the meantime, I need you to hold on to something for me.”

“Sasha, what’s going on?” Jon asked. The smell of blood was getting overwhelming.

Sasha pointed to the ground beside Gertrude. “Do you see that?” she asked.

“The dead body, or the puddle of blood around it?”

“No, Jon. _Look._ Do you see it?”

Jon did, actually, and once he saw it, he wondered how he had ever missed it. The pool of blood was largely rounded, with some odd shapes flowing through the cracks in the old wooden floor, but one edge of it had a corner. Jon grabbed a nearby lantern and held it closer to the ground to reveal a perfectly square crevice in the floor. Setting the lantern down, Jon pulled a pocketknife from his trousers and flipped it open. He wedged the blade into one side of the crevice and gave it a twist. The section of floor popped up, revealing a small hole in the ground and, inside, a box.

“Sasha,” said Jon, “what is this?”

“Open it,” she said, offering no explanation.

Jon gave her a skeptical glance, but his curiosity overtook his caution. He reached for the box.

It was a simple wooden case, about the size of a jewelry box. In fact, Jon realized as he looked closer, it _was_ a jewelry box, though opening several of the drawers along one side revealed that it was mostly empty. Only the last drawer held anything—a golden ring, carved to look like a crown inlaid with jewels. He tipped it out into his hand. It was cool and heavy. He was overcome with the sudden urge to try it on.

“Best to keep that safe,” said Sasha. She reached over to the desk and grabbed a small paper envelope, then held it open for Jon, obviously waiting for him to place the ring inside. He did so reluctantly, relishing the tickle of cool metal as it slid across his palm. Once the ring was safely nested in the envelope, she went back to the desk and pressed it with a wax seal. She handed the whole thing back to Jon and drew herself up.

“What is it?” Jon asked.

“I have my suspicions,” said Sasha.

“Which are?”

“Little more than guesses, currently. I’ll have to do some research before I know for sure.”

Jon frowned. “What?”

She looked at him, her eyes full of purpose and, horribly, fear. Jon had never seen Sasha afraid before. “Keep it secret. Keep it safe. I’ll be back before the summer ends. Whatever you do, _don’t_ put it on.”

“But—”

Sasha shook her head. “I don’t have time to argue, Jon. Hide it in your house. Don’t tell anyone where. I’ll ask Michael to call someone for Gertrude’s body.” She paused, then placed a hand gently on Jon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jon. I know you respected her, and I know you want answers. When I have them, I’ll bring them to you.”

“All right,” said Jon quietly, even though it wasn’t.

Sasha left Hobbiton that night. The midsummer festivities were dulled by the shock of Gertrude’s loss and the need to quickly plan her funeral. Jon didn’t arrive home until it was long past sunset, so exhausted that he collapsed on his couch and fell asleep in his clothes. The sounds of insects filled the hot summer night, overhung by the mournful moon.

  


* * *

  


The summer passed with great lethargy and a sort of dull quiet in the archives.

It was becoming very obvious that Gertrude’s filing system, which she had devised years earlier and never taught to another soul, had left the archives in such a state of disarray that there was almost no point in trying to sort them. Jon came the closest to figuring it out, and as such was made the new Head Archivist, a point which he contested hotly with Gerry until Gerry stormed off in rage to spend the week in Bree.

He returned with news of strange stirrings in the world of man. There were rumors of strange creatures in the lands outside the Shire, beacons of a growing darkness that left windows shuttered and doors locked against the creeping night. Jon scoffed at every story, but Gerry just glared at him and told them louder.

Towards the end of August, rumors of strange, robed figures began to circulate. Even the Shire began to lock its doors at night. Jon spent his evenings trying desperately to sort the archives into some sort of order, poring over old parchment by candlelight until, more often than not, he would fall asleep at his desk and only wake when the others returned to work. After a few weeks of this, Martin joined him in the archives in the hope of reducing his workload. The only effect this had was that Jon would occasionally wake with Martin’s coat draped over his shoulders.

One such evening, while he was working through an old stack of death certificates, a booming knock came from the door. Jon rushed to open it and saw Sasha standing there, her face drawn with worry and exhaustion.

“Is it secret?” she asked. “Is it safe?”

Jon invited her in and sat her down at the desk. He nearly offered to make her some tea, but she seemed so frantic that he worried she would explode if she was asked to wait for even a few minutes. She glanced at the windows repeatedly, as though at any moment a face would appear, peering in at them with hungry eyes. Jon shuddered at the thought.

“Do you have it?” Sasha asked.

Jon nodded and withdrew the envelope from his pocket, its wax seal still unbroken. Sasha took it with shaking hands and immediately turned and dropped the envelope into the small stove behind her, using magic rather than the nearby towel to open its metal door.

Jon gave a shout, but it was too late. The envelope was enveloped in flame, revealing the golden ring within. It glowed with heat. After a few seconds, Sasha grabbed the tongs and withdrew it from the flames, then beckoned for Jon to hold out his hand. He hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t burn.”

She was right. The ring had the same cool weight that it had possessed the first time Jon had held it, as though it was calling for him to slide it onto his finger. Jon peered down at the smooth metal that had so entranced him that summer and was shocked to see words shining in ember-red, already fading even as he looked.

“What does it say?” Jon asked.

Sasha stared at him, her face stony and grave. “It says ‘I open the door,’” she told him. “It is the ending of an incantation that has not been spoken in two hundred years.” She bit at her nails, staring down at the ring. “It’s exactly what I feared.”

“Sasha, what’s going on?” Jon asked. “What is this thing?”

She sighed. “It’s called the Watcher’s Crown,” she said. “Jon, what has Gertrude told you about the fourteen fears?”

Jon frowned. “What?”

“This archive used to keep records of them,” said Sasha, “long before your time. Most of that knowledge was lost two hundred years ago, when the Eye made its bid for power. I had hoped it would not make another so soon, but I didn’t realize how hungry he would be.”

“The Eye? Who’s hungry?”

“Magnus,” said Sasha, disdain dripping from the word. “The Eye is one of those fourteen fears—the fear of being watched, observed, known. The fear of surveillance. Magnus is one of its avatars, something that once was human but now serves to feed the Eye with the fear of others. Dark forces are rising, Jon, and this time I’m afraid that we won’t be able to stop them.”

“So this— this _thing,_ it’s some sort of weapon? For the Eye?”

“Sort of? It’s a very powerful object, but not very well-documented. It was originally a crown, and it was worn by another kind of avatar for the Eye. Somehow, it was used to bring the fourteen fears to the prominence and power that they enjoy in our world now. It was the transformation from fear to danger.” She leaned forward, bringing her hand to rest on the table. Her rings clicked against the wood. “Have you ever stood frozen in your doorway, staring at the shadows, waiting for something to lunge at you? Have you ever sworn you could see someone following you out of the corner of your eye, but every time you turned, they had vanished? Have you ever had the sudden, horrible realization that someday, life will end, and there will be nothing left for you?”

Jon’s heart pounded in his chest. The ring was still heavy in his palm. He slipped it into his coat pocket as quickly as he could, unnerved by its quiet gravity.  
“I have reason to believe that agents of the fears are already pursuing you. You’ll need to pack whatever you can carry and head to the Prancing Pony in Bree. I’ll meet you there.”

“You’ll meet me there?” Jon asked. “Why not travel with me?”

Sasha’s face darkened. “I need to consult with another wizard of my order. She’s very powerful and very wise, and I think she’ll know better than I do how to deal with the Crown. I believe you’ll be safe travelling to Bree—otherwise, I wouldn’t be asking you to do this.”

Jon sighed. “When should I go?”

“As soon as possible,” said Sasha. “Tonight, if you can.”

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a clatter from the back room.

“Shit,” Sasha whispered. She raised her staff and stood.

“No, wait, Sasha,” said Jon, but before he could finish, she had already marched into battle. Jon groaned as he heard a soft shriek from the back room.

Sasha emerged, dragging Martin out by the ear. He was beet red and wincing, letting out quiet mutters of protest that went utterly ignored. She shoved him into her vacated seat and leaned against the desk, crossing her arms.

“Martin Blackwood,” she said, “just how much have you heard?”

Martin stammered, glancing frantically between her and Jon. “N— not much,” he said. “Just that Jon has some weird old crown, and it’s tied to an eldritch fear god, and there are fourteen of those, and also Jon needs to leave immediately because otherwise they’ll come and kill him.”

“So, everything,” said Jon.

Martin frowned at him. “You can’t just go off by yourself!” he said. “Bree is nearly three days away by foot, and if he’s really being followed, he shouldn’t go alone.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I’ll be _fine,_ Martin.”

“No, actually, he has a point,” said Sasha. “You shouldn’t travel alone. Martin, I’m sending you with him.”

Martin blushed even harder, but nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Wait,” said Jon, “I don’t need to be coddled, Sasha.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Sasha. “I just think it’ll be a little less lonely if Martin joins you.”

Martin’s eyes grew so bright at that statement that Jon bit back every argument he had against Martin joining him. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to go home and pack. Martin, join me in an hour.”

“Right!” said Martin. “Um, see you then, I guess. And I’ll see you when we get there, Sasha.”

“See you then,” said Sasha. “Just, maybe no more eavesdropping?”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Martin muttered, but he trudged out of the door without any further argument.

Jon looked to Sasha. “Are you sure we’ll be all right?”

“No,” said Sasha, smiling sadly, “but this is the best option, I think.”

“All right,” said Jon. “I’ll see you at the Prancing Pony.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Sasha.

  


* * *

  


After hours of trudging through fields and back roads, the sun finally began to peak over the horizon. Jon and Martin picked their way through a sea of wheat, careful not to break it. When the sun had nearly broken from the horizon, Martin stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asked.

Martin hesitated. “It’s just that… Look, if I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest from home I’ve ever been.”

Jon glanced around at the wheat that swayed in the gentle breeze. “Martin,” he said, “this is Michael and Helen’s farm. We haven’t even reached their house.”

“I know,” said Martin.

“This is honestly the farthest you’ve been?”

Martin blushed. “Yeah.”

Jon did his best to hold back a smile. He held out his hand. “Come on.”

Martin hesitated, then took Jon's hand and took another step. Together, they made their way closer to the edge of Michael and Helen’s farmland.

As they approached the farmhouse, Jon thought he heard something rustling in the grass behind him. He turned with some apprehension to see Martin, the blood draining from his face with fear, and the wheat behind them shaking. Jon pulled Martin closer to him and took a step back, waiting for a demon to emerge.

Instead, Michael and Helen stumbled out of the wheat, both wheezing with laughter. They froze when they saw Jon and Martin standing in front of them.

“Uh, hello?” said Michael.

“Christ,” said Martin. “You scared me!”

“ _We_ scared _you?_ ” said Helen. “What are you doing in our fields?”

“You popped up out of nowhere!” Martin protested.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked. “We were just looking for you in town, but no one answered at your house, and we didn’t see anyone in the archives.”

“Hang on,” said Jon. “Why were you looking for us?”

Michael turned to him. “Someone came to our door looking for you,” he said. “Well, two people. An old man and a young woman. There was something weird about them, like they were hungry for you, or something.”

“We told them to go south,” said Helen. “We didn’t trust them.”

“Thank you,” said Jon. “We need to get to Bree before they realize you’ve sent them in the wrong direction.”

Michael frowned. “Bree?” he asked. “You’re leaving the Shire?”

“Sasha thinks it’s best,” said Jon. “If those people come back, you can send them to my home. We won’t be returning for a while, I should think.”

“We’ll at least walk you to the Shire’s border,” said Helen. “Might as well give you a proper sendoff.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “We aren’t _dying,_ Helen.”

“Sure you’re not. We’ll walk with you anyway.”

They made their way through the field, feeling slightly more confident in each others’ company. The sun rose on a beautiful day, and soon they had reached the edge of the property and were back on the road. They stopped once for lunch and again for dinner, feeling safer than they had in the dead of night, and made many jokes and told many stories.

Soon, though, the sun began to sink in the sky, and a sense of unease fell over the group. They walked faster by unspoken agreement, keeping their eyes peeled for shadows behind them. Their conversation dwindled as they strained to hear any sign that they may not be alone.

The sign never came. They settled off the road for the night and made camp in the trees, close enough to the road to find their way back but hidden from it in case they had been followed. It was too risky to build a fire, so they pulled their blankets up to their chins for warmth. Martin offered Jon an extra blanket, but Jon refused, as he was too worried to really sleep, anyway. The hours of night crawled by, and Jon feared that he would get no rest at all, but the exhaustion of the previous night finally caught up to him in the early hours of the morning, and his eyes drooped until he fell asleep.

He awoke with a start at the snapping of a twig. He sat upright and gazed into the darkness, fearing that their pursuers had caught up with them. Another twig cracked, and Jon whirled around to see that Michael had simply rolled onto a fallen branch. As deeply as he was sleeping, it was unlikely he would have noticed had he rolled off a cliff.

Jon sighed in relief and laid back down, hoping he could still get some small amount of rest before the night ended. As he began to drift off, he heard a quiet birdsong drifting through the trees.

He snapped himself back to awareness. Though he did not know how, having never found an interest in the study of nature, he _knew_ that the call he had just heard had been from a robin. There were still hours before sunrise—it was far too early to hear a robin’s call. Jon’s stomach filled with dread.

As quietly as he could, Jon reached over to Martin and shook his arm. Martin awoke immediately, his eyes snapping to alertness. Before his lips could form a question, Jon covered them with his hand, using the other to hold a finger to his lips. Martin nodded and began to gather their things in silence while Jon woke Michael and Helen.

They all crept away from their campsite with fear in their hearts. Jon knew that they would be too exposed on the road, so he picked out a path parallel to it under the cover of the trees, leading the others through the brush under the faint light of the quarter moon.

As they stumbled down a slight incline, Jon felt a prickling on the back of his neck, as though he was being watched. He turned and saw something shift behind one of the trees, vaguely humanoid and wreathed in shadow. His heart rate increased substantially.

“Faster,” he whispered, and they all began to walk as quickly as they could. Jon led them through the woods with fear creeping down his spine and up his throat, though he did his best not to betray that panic on his face. With every stumble, every misstep, every looming shadow became an enemy in the dark. Or perhaps ‘enemy’ was the wrong word; perhaps they became a predator, and Jon and his friends became prey, trying their best to outlive the hunt.

“How close are we to the ferry?” Jon asked under his breath.

“Maybe another mile,” said Michael, out of breath and sounding very frightened. “We’ll have to get back on the road at some point.”

Jon nodded but continued pressing through the woods. Every whisper of the wind through the trees became the whistle of an arrow; every shifting leaf was a pursuer’s footfall. Jon’s pack felt heavier at every step, and going by the others’ labored breathing, they felt the same way. Jon was exhausted; he hadn’t slept more than four hours in the last forty-eight, and every muscle in his body was sore from two straight days of walking. He knew that eventually, he or one of the others would slip up, and then the hunt would be over. He just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Jon stumbled on a root, which let out a loud _crack!_

The knife came flying from out of the trees to Jon’s left. He managed to turn just enough to avoid it, but it lodged itself into a nearby tree with such force that the resounding thwack sent shivers down his spine.

“Run!” Jon shouted, and they did.

The biggest challenge was dodging the trees that seemed to come up out of nowhere. Every fallen branch, gnarled root, or pile of leaves was another obstacle in their path, keeping them from safety. Martin hooked one hand around Jon’s arm and hauled him forward, running faster than Jon had thought was possible. Behind them, Michael and Helen let out small, frightened noises as they ran, words that had been swallowed by panic and transformed into twisted, indistinguishable sounds that meant nothing but betrayed everything about their emotional states. Jon gasped for air, growing dizzier by the second, but he did not slow.

After what felt like hours of running through the dark woods, Martin hauled Jon back onto the road. Michael and Helen followed, as did their pursuers. Jon finally caught a glimpse of them as they left the trees behind: an old man, skinny and frail-looking but moving with impossible speed, and a young woman with eyes that reflected the moonlight in a way reminiscent of a wolf. They were both human, which surprised Jon, but there was no time to reflect on the emergence of the Big Folk in the middle of a Shire forest. The ferry had finally come into view, and every drop of remaining energy that Jon had was dedicated to catching it.

They sprinted toward the dock with renewed speed, seeing their goal so close before them. Martin shoved Jon onto the wooden ferry and began untying it from its mooring as Michael and Helen jumped onboard. Helen pushed them away from the dock with the oar that lay there, then began to paddle as quickly as she could. The man and the woman stopped at the edge of the dock, and for a moment, Jon thought they were safe.

The woman moved so quickly that Jon did not see her withdrawing her knife or lining up the throw. Only a strange prickling in the back of his mind alerted him to the danger. He moved on instinct, turning his head to avoid its glancing blow. He was just in time; the edge of the blade nicked his throat as it flew past, leaving a shallow but stinging line of blood across his neck. Martin shouted in surprise for the others to get down, but it didn’t seem like the hunters were going to throw another knife. They simply watched as the ferry drifted away, until they were far enough that Jon and the others could no longer see them.

“Jon,” said Martin, “you’re bleeding.” He began to rummage in his pack for bandages.

“What the hell were those things?” asked Michael.

“I don’t know,” said Jon as Martin began to clean out the wound. “I’m sorry. I think you’re probably stuck with us, now.”

Helen glanced back at him. “We were already stuck,” she said. “After all, we’re the ones who sent them in the wrong direction. Somehow, I don’t think they would have been as polite the second time ‘round.”

“In either case,” said Jon, “I’m sorry that you’re caught up in this.”

“Why are they looking for you, anyway?” Michael asked.

Jon hesitated. He looked to Martin, who seemed to share that hesitation, but who eventually shrugged. Jon turned back to Helen and Michael and explained that the hunters were after the Crown, and that he was supposed to meet with Sasha in Bree.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” said Michael. “Sasha will know exactly what to do. As long as we can make it to Bree, we’ll be safe.”

“I hope so,” said Jon. The earliest light of dawn had begun to tinge the sky ahead of them with light blue, and the first birds of morning had begun to call. They had only a day’s walk left before they reached the Prancing Pony, and then, hopefully, Jon would have more answers.

He only hoped they would make it there in one piece.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Alcohol, weapons, canon-typical worms, blood, minor character death

They arrived at the outskirts of Bree by that evening, having walked all day without rest to keep ahead of the hunters. The village wall loomed large before them, though it was hardly taller than a man, and when they reached the gate, the gatekeeper had to crouch to use the hobbit-sized slot in front of them.

“Names and business?” he asked.

Jon cast about for a moment, trying to come up with a fake name for the gatekeeper, and then stepped forward. “My name is Jonny D’ville,” he said. “These are my friends. We wish to stay at the inn. Our business is our own.”

“All right, all right,” said the gatekeeper. “Just odd, seeing hobbits in these parts, or at least it is these days. There’s unscrupulous folks about. ‘S my job to ask questions.”

He directed them to the Prancing Pony. They arrived just as the street began to grow truly dark and stepped up to the counter, where the innkeeper promised to prepare them a room and some dinner. Jon asked whether the man had seen Sasha James, and he frowned.

“Sasha?” he asked. “No, I’ve not seen her since midsummer. If you’re meant to meet with her, though, I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.”

“I hope so,” said Jon. He and the others followed the innkeeper to a hobbit-sized table that had been shoved against one wall. The inn was crowded and noisy, which did nothing to calm Jon’s nerves. He cast his gaze about the room, searching warily for their hunters.

In the corner sat a woman in dark clothes with a hood that covered most of her face. She was human, though her clothing looked little like the clothing of the others in the inn. She smoked a long pipe, and its embers glowed just enough to cast the tip of her nose in a golden glow, though the rest of her face was hidden in shadow. When the innkeeper returned with their food and drinks, Jon leaned forward.

“Who’s that in the corner?” he asked.

The innkeeper’s face faltered. “Her name I don’t rightly know,” he said, “though she’s around these parts often enough. She comes from the north—one o’ them rangers, if I understand it. They’re a strange folk, but I’ve never known her to cause trouble. Folks ‘round here call her the Ghost, although I never really understood why. Don’t know her real name, but I’ve never known her to make trouble.”

Jon nodded worriedly and resolved to keep an eye on her for the rest of the evening. He and the others ate quickly, longing for the rest that beckoned from the hobbit-sized beds that awaited them. Helen and Michael made their way to the bar to drink their fill, having had an unusual amount of excitement that day; Martin stayed by Jon’s side, for which Jon was surprisingly grateful. Normally, Martin’s hovering would have set him on edge, but the companionship was nice after three straight days of terror.

“We should get some sleep,” Martin said after a while.

Jon spared another nervous glance for the hooded figure in the corner, but she hadn’t moved since they had sat, and he figured staying up all night wouldn’t increase their chances if she decided to attack. He nodded. “I’ll get the others.”

Making his way to the bar was a struggle, as the tightly-packed humans didn’t seem to notice the exhausted hobbit trying to weave his way through them. As he neared the bar, he could see that Michael and Helen were surrounded by people, all of whom were listening intently as the two, both clearly intoxicated, regaled them with the story of their arrival. Upon hearing Michael’s drunken voice ranting about the hunters, Jon began to press forward with renewed urgency, fiddling anxiously with the Crown in his pocket.

“… and then one of them threw a _knife,_ ” Michael said, “and it hit my friend.” He turned. “Look, that’s him, coming this way! My friend, Jon Sims…”

“Stop!” Jon cried, and then several things happened at once.

At the sound of his name, the hooded woman in the corner had started, as though she recognized it. Her movement distracted Jon enough that, with his eyes no longer trained on the ground ahead of him, he managed to trip over someone’s foot. As he did, he flung his hands out to catch himself, which launched the Crown out of his pocket. The Ghost stood, embers falling from her pipe. Jon hit the ground hard and rolled, scrambling for the Crown. He was just barely able to hook it with the edge of his finger, and it slipped on as he grasped it.

Then, to all onlookers, Jon vanished.

To Jon, the world went grey and turbulent, full of twisting fog and raging fire and snatches of dark shadow. Things skittered on the edge of his vision, and through it all, he felt the presence of a great and terrible thing watching him, knowing him, so horrible and overwhelming that all Jon could do was scream.

He had just enough presence of mind to crawl beneath a table before slipping the Crown back off of his finger. He reappeared next to someone’s feet, and they jumped back from the table. Before anyone could look, Jon darted to the back of the hall and to their room, his heart racing.

As he entered, he realized that there was one person on whom he should have been keeping a closer eye.

The Ghost stood in the center of the room, her hood still drawn over her face. She had one hand on the hilt of her sword, though it was still sheathed, and the other on her hip. She was smaller than Jon had first thought, seeing her in that corner, but still human and still tall enough to be intimidating.

“That was pretty stupid, what you did out there,” she said.

Jon took a step back. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”

“I’d been told to watch for the hobbits,” she said, “but I’d also been told you’d be discrete. There’s an awful lot of people looking for that ring you’ve got, and you’d be smart not to flash it to every wide-eyed arsehole who gives you a second glance.”

“That was an accident,” Jon protested. He shook his head. “No, wait. Tell me who you are.”

The Ghost scoffed. “Or what?” she asked. “Or you’ll disappear again? You really think I couldn’t reach you before you got to the door?”

“I’ll scream,” Jon said.

“You’d be dead before you had the chance,” said the Ghost. Then, she laughed, and took her hand off of her sword. “Luckily for you, Sasha sent me. I’m an ally.” She pulled her hood down to reveal cropped dark hair, clearly unwashed, and a wry smile that immediately reminded Jon of Sasha.

As she did so, Martin, Michael, and Helen burst into the room, wielding candlesticks, silverware, and, in Martin’s case, a chair.

“Leave him alone!” Martin shouted.

The Ghost raised an eyebrow. “Or, what?” she asked. “You’ll hit me with a chair?”

“Yeah, I will!” said Martin, hoisting the chair higher.

Jon glanced at Martin, then back at the Ghost. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked.

The Ghost rolled her eyes and looked back to Jon. “Sasha told me to look for a Jon Sims,” she explained, “and that he would know what I meant when I said ‘callie-OH-pee.’”

The others stared blankly as Jon began to laugh, finally filling with relief. “It’s ‘cal-EYE-oh-pee,’ actually,” he said. “So Sasha really _did_ send you. But who are you?”

Melanie nodded to the others, who sheepishly lowered their weapons. “I’m Melanie,” she said. “I’m here to escort you to Rivendell, where we’ll meet with some of my other friends. Sasha was supposed to meet me on the road, but she knew there was a chance she’d be detained, so she told me not to wait if she didn’t show up.”  
Jon frowned. “She told me she’d be here,” he said. “I have a bad feeling about her being gone.”

“I do, too,” said Melanie, “but there’s no time to waste. You were followed to this town, and after that stunt in the pub, I doubt you’d make it through the night. We’ll have to leave tonight.”

“We’ve been walking for days,” said Michael. “I don’t know if I can keep going without rest.”

Melanie looked uneasy. “We really can’t stay here,” she said. “It’s too risky.”

“I agree with Michael,” said Jon, “but I don’t think we can stay here, either.”

They all paused, thinking, and then Helen spoke.

“We can’t keep going,” she said, “and we can’t stay here. I think I have an idea.”

  


* * *

  


Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk made their way silently through the inn.

Their only light was that of the waning moon as it slipped through the windows, casting everything in silver. Using only glances and hand signals, they communicated to each other the number of the hobbits’ room and the exact strategy they would use to kill them. They crept through the hallway with murder in their eyes and the scent of pray on their tongues.

When they reached the room, they positioned themselves on either side of the hobbits, ready to slash through the blankets and kill each one without waking the others. They glanced at each other, hungry and ready, and raised their knives.

The knives came down, and the inn was silent.

  


* * *

  


In the room upstairs, the hobbits slept peacefully.

They awoke when Melanie shook their shoulders and beckoned for them to follow in silence. They crept out of the inn as quietly as the hunters had, still exhausted, while the sounds of the hunters’ knives echoed through the village. They made their way out of Bree and into the forest before the noise stopped.

For the next three days, they picked through brush and trees and brackish water as they traveled north. Melanie refused to use the road, and the rest of them knew very little about travel, so they stopped frequently for rest. Occasionally, they would pass another ball of silver worms writhing on the ground. Whenever they did, Melanie would stoop to set them alight. They caught fire like dry tinder, even though they appeared moist to the touch. When they had found the seventh such ball of worms, Martin asked Melanie what they were.

“The Corruption,” she explained. “The fear of rot and illness. I don’t want them to know where we are.”

“But they’re worms,” said Michael. “They can’t exactly send a letter back to those hunters.”

“They’re not just worms,” Melanie said. “They’re agents of one of the Fears. They can’t communicate with those hunters, but they _can_ communicate with any other avatars of the Corruption, and _that’s_ what I’m afraid of.”

Jon had explained what Sasha had told him to the others while they had been travelling to Bree, but as she spoke, Jon realized that Melanie knew more about the Fears than he had initially guessed.

“So there’s the Eye and the Corruption,” he said, “but Sasha said there were fourteen.”

Melanie sighed. “Ugh,” she said. “I hate explaining this. It takes so long, and it’s sort of useless, anyway. The important bit is that these fears exist and that their avatars have unnatural powers that they can and will use to kill you if they catch you.”

“So what do we do?” Helen asked.

Melanie shrugged. “Don’t let them catch you.”

“Melanie, _please,_ ” said Jon.

She sighed. “All right, fine. So, yes, there’s the Eye and Corruption. You’ve already met the Hunt.”

“You’re telling me we were being stalked by eldritch monsters this entire time?” said Martin.

Melanie nodded. “There’s also the Slaughter and the Flesh, the Dark, the Desolation—”

“Slow down,” said Jon, trying to dig in his pack for a notepad and failing miserably.

“Look, if you don’t want me to explain them, I won’t,” said Melanie. “I always forget four of them, anyway. Who thought fourteen was a good idea? Like, if it was a list of ten things, that would be manageable, but remembering three separate versions of the fear of being murdered is a lot to expect. I can’t be listing eldritch fears _and_ foraging for berries.”

“Berries?” Michael asked. “Do you know a lot about edible flora? I’ve been meaning to learn, but I don’t spend a lot of time outside.”

“You are literally in the middle of a huge forest right now,” said Helen. “We’ve been travelling with her for days. Are you only going to ask her about berries now?”

“What else?” Jon asked, ignoring the others.

“Uh, there’s the Vast,” she said. “Fear of wide open spaces. And the Buried, which is the opposite. The Lonely’s a nasty one, and so is the Spiral—they’re both more about what’s inside your head than stuff that’ll kill you.”

“The Spiral?” Jon asked.

“Yeah. Spiral, the Twisting Deceit, It Is Not What It Is, Es Mentiras—it’s got a lot of names. Pretentious, I guess. It’s the fear of madness.”

“That’s pleasant,” said Martin.

“Yeah, they’re all great at parties,” said Melanie. They emerged from their particular bit of woods to see flatlands stretching for miles, interrupted only by the ruins of some old fortress atop a hill.

“What is that?” Helen asked.

“Just an old ruin,” said Melanie. “We’ll be resting there for the night.”

“Oh, good,” said Michael. “I’m exhausted. Also, a bit peckish.”

They trudged toward the ruins. When they arrived, Melanie helped them set up camp, then turned back towards the woods. “I’ll be back when I’ve caught dinner,” she said, before walking very quickly away from them.

Michael volunteered to take first watch while the others slept. Jon laid down between Helen and Martin and tried stubbornly to will his racing mind to rest for a while.

When he awoke, it was to the feeling of worms swarming over his arms.

“Ahh!” he screamed, trying to brush the worms off without much success. Martin was awake in seconds, using his blanket to brush the worms off of his own arms and shouting for the others to wake up. Michael had fallen asleep where he had been sitting, and Helen shook him desperately. The sliver of the moon barely lit the ruins where they lay, and Jon couldn’t see anywhere to run—or, more importantly, Melanie.

Three figures emerged from the darkness. The first two were familiar: the hunters that had pursued them to Bree. The third was new, though she looked even less human than the hunters. Her skin was covered in dark dots, and her dark hair hung in front of her face. Even from a distance, she smelled of illness and rotting things. Jon realized with horror that the dots were holes, and from some of them came more of the pale, silvery worms, wriggling out onto the ground.

“Sims,” she said. “We want the Crown.”

Martin pulled Jon behind him and took a careful step back. “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice shaking. “Leave us alone.”

The worm woman took a step forward, flanked by the hunters. “The Crown,” she said again, holding out her hand.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jon, his voice shaking.

The woman lunged forward, along with a swarm of worms. Jon and the others stumbled backwards. Just before the woman reached them, she was stopped by the sudden shine of a sword in the moonlight.

Melanie swung wildly, driving the creatures back. Helen knelt beside Jon for a moment before standing again with a flaming branch, which she threw towards the worm woman. The woman managed to avoid the flames, but they caught quickly among the worms, which shriveled with a quiet scream. The woman screamed alongside them, clutching at the holes in her arms.

The hunters, taking advantage of the distraction, lunged toward Jon again. He tripped, letting out a shout of surprise. Melanie turned back to them with her sword raised.

As he hit the ground, it occurred to Jon that the creatures couldn’t kill him if they couldn’t find him. Frantically, he dug into his pocket, scrambling for the Crown. It was only a matter of seconds before he slipped it onto his finger and fell back into the world of fog and darkness that he had seen at the Prancing Pony.

The world was different this time, though. Where before the people around him had turned to shadow, the three avatars remained. The two hunters seemed even more monstrous and menacing than they had before, with pointed teeth and glowing eyes, and an obvious rot crept over the worm woman. As soon as Jon entered their world of shadow, their eyes all snapped to focus on him. There was a horrible, burrowing pain in his arms and face, and Jon realized that the silver worms existed in this world, too, and that they were currently swarming him and digging into his skin. He howled in pain, and the worm woman laughed, though she was quickly interrupted by Melanie’s shadowy form. Jon fought through the pain and managed to work the ring off of his finger.

Back in the real world, everything was chaos. Michael and Helen were trying desperately to light more branches on fire and throw them at the avatars. Martin had taken to throwing rocks, though he stopped when he saw Jon writhing on the ground, still covered in wriggling worms.

“Jon!” he yelled. The avatars turned, and Helen used the distraction to throw a finally-flaming branch at the worm woman.

She caught fire far faster than Jon would have thought possible. Her whole body was aflame in seconds, and the scream that she let out was so horrible that even the hunters paused to cover their ears. Melanie used the distraction to run her sword through the old man, who, rather than screaming, let out a small puff of air.

It was an impressive move, but it left Melanie open to the younger woman’s attacks. She lunged forward, her eyes glinting in the moonlight, and tackled Melanie to the ground.

They rolled along the grass and stone for a moment, clawing at each others’ faces, while the others stood by and watched. Only Martin looked away, preoccupied with trying to pull the worms out of Jon’s skin with his pocketknife, which was excruciating and largely unsuccessful.

The woman managed to pin Melanie to the ground at last, pressing a long knife to her throat. Melanie strained for her sword, but it lay just out of her reach. Michael and Helen began to move forward, but the woman just pushed her knife harder against Melanie’s neck.

“Finally,” she said, half-growling. “Caught you.”

Jon stared in horror as the knife slipped and left a shallow cut in Melanie’s throat. A bead of blood trickled towards the ground.

“I’m going to kill you,” said the woman, “and then I’m going to kill your friends, and then I’m taking the Crown, and then—”

And then an arrow flew out of the darkness and lodged itself in the woman’s chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Blood, illness
> 
> Special thanks to [PFDiva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PFDiva/pseuds/PFDiva) for helping me edit a section of this chapter!

The woman’s body crumpled and rolled off of Melanie. Melanie stood, blood still trickling down her neck.

The burning in Jon’s arms became overwhelming. He let out another pained sound, and Martin resolutely turned back to his arms, spearing the worms with a knife and pulling them out of his wounds.

“Help!” Martin shouted. The others rushed to Jon’s side, including someone he had never seen before.

She was beautiful—an elf with dark brown skin, outfitted in a simple tunic and holding a silver bow that was inlaid with intricate carvings. Her eyes were filled with concern as she gazed down at Jon, and she quickly placed a hand on Jon’s forehead and began to mutter an incantation. As she leaned forward, her hai fell in thick twists around her face and brushed against Jon’s aching shoulder. Jon glanced up at her face where it reflected the faint moonlight. She was so beautiful that it was almost a comfort.

The burning eased, though it did not disappear. Jon experienced the singular sensation of hundreds of worms withdrawing from his body, which was about as unpleasant as one might have imagined it to be. The elf withdrew her hand and peered at his bloody arms and neck, then gazed at Melanie with affection and worry.

“I’ll need to take him with me,” she said. “He’ll need to be healed before the Rot sets in. I’ve slowed it down, at best.”

Martin grabbed onto Jon’s shirt. “Hang on,” he said. “You can’t just take him away. Who are you?”

Melanie, ignoring Martin’s comment, began to wrap Jon’s arms with bandages from her pack. “We’ll catch up to you,” she said to the elf. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not,” said Martin. “Where is she going to take him?”

“To Rivendell,” said the elf. “My name’s Georgie. They have medicine in Rivendell that can help him. If he doesn’t get there soon, he’ll be consumed by the Rot, and he’ll die. I’m sorry, but I need to take him now.”

Martin glanced down at Jon. Jon, still overwhelmed by pain, managed to give him a small nod. If it was a choice between leaving the others in Melanie’s capable hands or rotting away like that worm woman, he would take leaving any day.

“Fine,” said Martin. “We’ll meet you there, all right, Jon?”

Jon let out a gasp of pain. Martin smoothed a hand over his forehead and brushed a lock of hair away from his face. Then, as though remembering himself, he pulled his hand back, blushing.

“Help me carry him,” said Georgie. She and Melanie hoisted Jon to his feet and walked him to Georgie’s horse, which knelt down as Georgie and Melanie lifted him into the saddle. Georgie settled herself behind him and gripped the reins.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said to Melanie. Melanie nodded solemnly, and then they were off.

Jon flitted in and out of consciousness. The world would fade for a while and then return, and the sun would have risen to reveal grassy plains and distant mountains, and then it would fade again. Jon’s dreams were tormented by worms and disease and rotting things, things that bored into the skin and crept into the lungs and brought down castles and cattle alike. When he would wake, groaning and feverish, Georgie would wrap her arms around him and beg him to hold on a little longer.

There were other figures chasing them, Jon thought. Occasionally, the world of his dreams would fade to reveal hooded figures on monstrous horses chasing them all the way to Rivendell. Georgie would shout for her horse, the Admiral, to press on. Jon would hold on as tightly as his shaking arms could, terrified for the moment when the horses caught up to them and he was swallowed whole by fear.

“Just a bit further,” Georgie said. “C’mon, Jon. I know you can make it.”

The plains ended and they were racing through forest again, branches reaching out like claws in front of them. Jon’s feverish dreams began to infect his waking hours; he saw the worm woman everywhere, saw the sharp fangs of the hunters, and over all of it a great Eye, watching and waiting for him to be consumed.

“We’re almost there,” said Georgie, but Jon wasn’t sure he believed her anymore.

In his confused, half-dreaming state, Jon watched as they neared a great and winding river. Georgie pressed them forward with renewed urgency. The horses and the masters who rode them, ever-vigilant, corralled Georgie until she was flanked on every side, with her only option to continue moving forward. She did so with great speed, unable to let out a volley of arrows because Jon no longer had the strength to stay on the Admiral’s back himself.

The river roared like a lion. Jon clung to the Admiral’s back as they crossed it, petrified of the churning depths below. When they had reached the opposite shore, Georgie turned back.

“If you want him,” she yelled, “come get him, you bastards!”

The figures tried to drive their horses forward, but the horses hesitated, stumbling on the slippery rocks of the riverbank. Georgie let out a laugh.

“What?” she said. “Servants of the eldritch fear gods, but scared of getting splashed? Or is that you know that the End’s domain is more powerful than even your masters can imagine?”

At her taunting, the figures finally managed to drive their horses forward. They began to cross the river, hesitant at first but gaining confidence with each step. Jon did his best to turn back toward Georgie, suddenly very afraid.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ve got a plan.”

When the figures had reached the middle of the river, Georgie began to speak in the same ancient tongue she had used to draw the worms out of Jon. Jon watched as the water around the horses’ legs began to recede and the river’s roar faded to a dull bubbling. Emboldened, the figures drove their horses further into the river.

Then, Jon spotted it. The river had receded, yes, but only in order to build its great power. A wall of water had arisen upriver, frothing and angry. With a word, Georgie released it, and the many tons of water flowed down into the valley, headed by a mist that seemed to be full of white horses the size of buildings.

The figures tried to drive their horses back, but it was too late. The great flood overcame them, washing them all down the river and away from where the Admiral stood. Georgie let out a shout of victory, and then everything went sort of sideways.

Jon was on the ground, though he couldn’t remember falling. Georgie knelt before him, her cool hands pressed against his cheeks. He tried to mutter an apology, but his tongue no longer seemed to be connected to his brain, so instead he let out a small moan of pain.

“Don’t give up, Jon!” Georgie shouted. “Not when we’ve made it this far. Please, Jon, you can’t fall now.”

Jon gasped in pain as Georgie’s face faded in and out of his mind. Her voice kept going, but the words no longer meant anything; he was a thousand miles from that wooded place, the tether to his body fraying by the second, and it felt as though any moment the string would snap and he would evaporate into the cool morning air.

Then there was light and faces and voices shouting, and a man calling to him but saying that now was not yet the time to choose, and Martin at his bedside, curls spilling over his eyes, and then there was only the deepest, darkest night, studded with stars.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings for this chapter!

Jon awoke to see Sasha peering down at him, looking tired but relieved.

“Hello, Jon,” she said. “Glad you’re awake. You scared us, you know.”

“Sasha,” said Jon, his voice hoarse. “How long was I out?”

“Couple of weeks,” said Sasha. “The others have been worried sick. They got here two days ago. Martin refused to leave your bed until he passed out. I had to promise to stay to make him leave.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “Oh, that’s… really rather kind of him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. You need to appreciate that boy, Jon. That is dedication.”

Jon glanced around at the room, which was filled with golden light. The furnishings were simple, but the bed was connected to the floor, as though it had been carved out of the same wood as the rest of the room. In fact, Jon realized that most of the furniture in the room had been made the same way, aside from a couple of chairs.

“We’re in Rivendell,” he said. “The land of the elves.”

“It’s, like, _one_ land of the elves,” said Sasha. “There are a couple.”

Before Jon could respond, the door to the room flew open, and Michael and Helen rushed in.

“You’re awake!” Michael cried, throwing his arms around Jon.

Helen stood beside the bed, hands on her hips, and grinned down at him. “Took you long enough,” she said. “We were starting to think we’d come all this way for nothing.”

“Oi,” said Jon, but Michael had started to constrict his ribcage in a way that was not really conducive to speech, so he had no opportunity to finish protesting Helen’s words. He let out a sort of strangled noise instead, which sent Sasha into a fit of laughter.

All the noise was bound to draw some attention. Jon was glad that the attention it drew belonged to one Martin Blackwood, who entered the room with some trepidation, looking like he was prepared to see Jon’s corpse lying on the bed. When he met Jon’s eyes, his face lit up with joy, and Jon’s heart stopped.

“You’re all right!” he shouted, and then blushed, covering his mouth with one hand. “Didn’t mean to shout,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Jon smiled. “It’s all right,” he said. “Um, you can come here, if you want.”

“Oh my god,” said Sasha. “Right, I’m going to leave you folks to it and go tell Oliver that you’re awake.”

“Who’s Oliver?” Jon asked.

“He’s the, uh,” Sasha said, waving her hand in the air, “king? Chief? Leader guy, whatever the title is, of Rivendell. He’s also technically an avatar of the End, but he’s cool. The End isn’t usually very interested in, like, taking over the world, since everyone dies someday anyway.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “That’s rather morbid.”

“Yep!” said Sasha. “Anyway, I’ve got to go meet up with Tim. You’ll like him—he’s funny, and less of an ass than you are.” She winked at Jon’s scowl. “See you later.”

Jon sat there for a while and let the others fuss over him. Helen told him the story of their travels, including her recent discovery that Melanie and Georgie were together, and then about the splendor of Rivendell itself.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “It’s like the buildings were carved out of trees, but that would mean the trees were thousands of years old. Or maybe it’s like they were grown, not carved. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.”

“The elves are all really lovely, too,” said Michael. “That Oliver fellow especially. He gave us these lovely rooms to sleep in, and he invited us all to a feast on our first night. I think Georgie is one of his knights.”

“I thought she was his successor,” said Martin.

Helen nodded. “He doesn’t have any children,” she said, “so he picked Georgie. She’ll be the next leader of Rivendell, though it sounds like it’s sort of… I don’t know, empty?”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

“The elves have been leaving Middle Earth,” Martin explained. “It’s like what Melanie said—dark forces are rising, things the elves haven’t seen in hundreds of years, and that’s not even that long for an elf. Oliver and Graham—that’s his husband—said that a lot of the elves have gone into the West trying to avoid it.” The mood grew solemn as they all contemplated the things they had faced to get to that point. If the hunters had been any indication, the darkness had already risen.

“Well, no matter,” said Jon. “We’ve brought them the Crown. They can do with it what they wish. Soon, we’ll all be on our way home.”

“Ugh, I can’t wait,” said Helen. “No offense, but this hasn’t exactly been a leisurely stroll through the countryside. I miss my bed.”

“No, I agree,” said Jon. “Better to hand it off to the Big Folk and go back home. I’m sure the archives are in a state with only Gerry to tend to them. I don’t think he’s ever even seen a broom before, much less used one.”

“Now that you’re awake, we’ll be heading home soon, anyway,” said Michael. “I think they want you to sit on their big meeting about what to do with the Crown.”

“Big meeting?” Jon asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Michael explained. “There’s a bunch of representatives here from different cities. There’s someone from Gondor, and a dwarf and an elf, too—one from another place, not Rivendell. They were called to meet about the Crown and decide how to use it. I guess they’re having you represent the hobbits.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “Without the rest of you?”

Helen shrugged. “Guess we aren’t as special as you,” she said with a wink.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m sure they won’t need me for much, aside from handing the Crown over to them. Then we’ll be on our way home again.”

Even as he spoke, his mind flitted to the uneasy feeling that he would not see home again for a long, long time.

  


* * *

  


Sasha called the meeting to order the next day. Jon joined them, his arms still aching under his bandages. He sat beside Sasha and didn’t say a word as everyone in the room was introduced.

The elven woman beside Sasha was named Basira. She gave a curt, business-like nod when her name was called. Beside her sat a dwarven woman named Daisy, who glared daggers at everyone in attendance. Melanie sat beside her, and then Georgie and Oliver. On Oliver’s other side sat a human man named Tim, who grinned and winked at everyone who sat down, especially Sasha. Sasha rolled her eyes at him good-naturedly. On his other side sat an old hobbit, whom Sasha introduced as Jurgen Leitner. He held a large tome in his lap.

“All right,” said Sasha. “Before we begin, I think I owe a few of you some answers. Jurgen, if you would?”

The old man stood and opened his book. With shaking, knobby fingers, he opened the book and began to read.

Though his specific words did not stick in Jon’s mind, he listened quietly and learned of the fourteen fears: The Hunt, the Corruption, the Flesh, the Dark, the Stranger, the Slaughter, the Spiral, the Desolation, the Vast, the Web, the End, the Buried, the Lonely, and that great and terrible Eye. He listened as Jurgen told the story of the Watcher’s Crown, pulled from the head of a man’s lifeless body and shrinking down to the size of a ring. Jurgen described how the Crown had travelled from hand to hand, pocket to pocket, until it was picked up by Gertrude, holding a sword and fighting valiantly against a woman wreathed in flames.

As the story ended, the Crown began to weigh heavily in Jon’s pocket. He knew, suddenly and terribly, its destructive power, the way that it would pull even the noblest soul into that world of shadows. Jon wanted nothing more than to take it from his pocket and destroy it, to rip it down until it vanished and he could finally return home and know peace.

The circle was quiet when Jurgen finished and sat once more. Sasha stood and beckoned for Jon to place the Crown on the stone dais in the center. Jon did so with more reluctance than he would have liked to admit; he had grown used to that cool weight, even in less than a full summer.

“This is the quest,” said Oliver, turning to the others. “The Crown must be removed from this world. Its power has only grown over the course of these last two centuries, and it has existed for far longer than that, I fear. The Eye’s power is centered on its Panopticon, deep in the heart of Mordor. Nearby there is a place—a gap between worlds, it has been called. It is the only place with the energy to destroy the Crown. It is called Hill Top, and it sits at the peak of the volcano known as Mount Doom. The Crown must be brought to this place and obliterated, so that our land is free of shadow at last. One of you must do this.”

The human man—Tim, Jon remembered—stood, and addressed the others with good-natured solemnity.

“This is a powerful weapon,” he said. “Surely it would be wise to use it against the enemy, rather than destroying it? With the Crown gone, who’s to say the Fears won’t just rise again in another hundred years, or a thousand? How will we keep our descendants safe without it?”

“The Crown is not just a weapon,” Oliver explained. “It’s a living thing, or at least as living as the Fears. It feeds on its wearer, corrupts them, until there is nothing left but a hollow shell for the Eye to control. It is how it gained its last avatar, and the one before that, and it will continue as long as the Crown exists. It is the Eye’s ultimate form of power in this world, and one it will not hesitate to use.”

“Besides,” said Daisy, “I wouldn’t trust a human with it, anyway.”

“Oi,” said Tim, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a big horrible corrupt-y weapon, Tim” said Melanie.

“Yeah, but that’s true for anyone, not just a human.”

“If we’re bringing it to Mordor, we’ll need someone experienced with long-distance travel,” said Basira. “Someone familiar with nature. I think an elf would be appropriate.”

“I’m literally a ranger,” said Melanie.

“You can come, too,” said Basira. “I’m not picky.”

“I’m good with an axe,” said Daisy.

“And I’m good with a sword!” said Tim. “Wow, isn’t it wild that all of the warrior delegates at this meeting are skilled with weapons? Absolutely unbelievable!”

“Tim,” scolded Sasha, but Melanie was already giving Tim the finger.

“Look, all I’m saying is that we’re _assuming_ that destroying the Crown is best. Maybe we should consider some other options, first.”

Sasha glared at him. “Do you think I haven’t done my research, Tim? It has to be destroyed.”

“Oh, god,” said Tim. He leaned over to Jurgen and, in a stage whisper, asked, “Do you think she’s going to kick my ass after this meeting? I think she’s going to kick my ass after this meeting.”

“I will absolutely be kicking your ass after this meeting, Timothy Stoker.”

“Damn it.”

On the other side of the pavilion, Daisy and Melanie were arguing about who would be better in melee combat. Melanie had made a jab about Daisy’s height, to which Daisy responded, “At least I’m tall for a dwarf. You’ve barely got a foot on me.”

“Low blow, Daisy,” said Basira. Daisy laughed.

All the while, the Crown glistened on that stone dais. It caught Jon’s eye as it twinkled in the sun, looking so pretty and innocent atop the rock. He was struck with a simultaneous attraction and revulsion, staring at its sheen. The effect was dizzying enough that he had to close his eyes, overcome by its power and by the shouts of those around him. His stomach sank; he knew what he had to do.

“I will take the Crown to Hill Top,” he said quietly.

The shouting did not stop. Jon opened his eyes, and Sasha was staring at him, something heartbroken in her eyes.

“I will take the Crown to Hill Top!” he shouted. The arguing died down, and everyone stared at him. Sheepishly, he added, “Though I do not know the way.”

Oliver nodded. “You will need a guide. Melanie can bring you safely through the forest.”

“They’ll have to travel through Lothlorien,” said Basira. “I can take them there.”

“You cannot have an elf on this journey and not a dwarf,” said Daisy. “Besides, I go where she goes.”

“And there should be a representative from Gondor, too,” said Tim. “If we’re destroying the ring, I’ll do anything I can to help. If I travel with you, my father will offer you rest and food when we reach Gondor, at the time when we most need it. It can be our stronghold for a siege on Mordor.”

“This won’t be a military operation,” Sasha pointed out. “It’ll require stealth. I will go, to provide whatever protection I can.”

“Six,” said Oliver. “That seems as good a number as any.”

“Wait!” came a cry from below the pavilion. Martin, Michael, and Helen came rushing up the steps, each looking somewhat distraught at the news that Jon would be leaving. “We’re coming with you,” Martin said, looking worriedly at Jon.

Jon was afraid that the others would protest, but instead, Sasha burst into laughter. “I should have known you’d be listening! It’ll be nine, then. An auspicious number for a quest. We’ll be the Fellowship of the Crown, then.”

“Got a ring to it, eh?” said Tim. The others groaned.

“It won’t be an easy quest,” Sasha warned. “The forces of the fourteen Fears will do anything they can to stop us. I told you that I left the Shire to meet with my old mentor; she has fallen to the Stranger, and she was one of the most powerful wizards I’ve ever met. Jonah Magnus waits in the Panopticon, ready to defend his keep. Are you sure you’re willing to do this, Jon?”

Jon nodded. “Someone has to take it,” he said.

“I know,” said Sasha quietly. “I just wish it didn’t have to be you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Violence, blood, weapons

Their journey started peacefully. The woods were cool, and the trees protected the Fellowship from the late summer sun. They found no pursuers in those woods, no monsters lurking behind those trees, and soon they were well on their way to the Misty Mountains.

As they neared the mountains, the jokes and jabs of their first weeks of travel began to fade. Sasha grew more and more tense as they neared the peaks, which had appeared in the distance early in their travels and which loomed on the horizon, growing each day. Sasha could often be found sitting beside Tim in the darkness when they settled for the night, worriedly planning the next stage of their trek. Tim always tried to soothe her with a joke or a reassurance, but her mind was clearly troubled as they neared the peaks.

“We’ll be passing through the Mines of Moria,” said Tim one evening. “I’ve heard they’re beautiful. Supposed to be the kind of Dwarven architecture you never see aboveground.”

“No one’s received any communication from inside the mines in decades,” said Sasha. “It isn’t safe. We’ll have to navigate through the mountains. There’s a pass we can take, though I’m not sure I can navigate it myself. Melanie, Daisy, Basira, any thoughts?”

“I’ve travelled the pass before,” said Melanie. “Though, Sasha, I think we might be impeded.”

Sasha glanced up at the storm clouds that had followed them for the past three days. “I think you might be right,” she said. “It looks like my mentor’s watching.”

“Can’t send a storm cloud down a mineshaft,” Daisy pointed out. “We’ll be safer if we move underground.”

Tim glanced up at the clouds. “I say we head for the mines,” she said. “We won’t be able to avoid the storm aboveground. It’s the safest way through the Misty Mountains.”

Basir shook her head. “‘Safest’ doesn’t mean ‘safe,’” she said. “Sasha, what do you think?”

She frowned. “I don’t think the mines are safe,” she said, “but I think they’re our best bet.”

“That settles it, then,” said Daisy. “We’re going through Moria.”

Michael leaned closer to Jon. “Uh, what did they say about no one talking to anyone inside in decades?”

They reached the base of the mountain just after nightfall. Daisy led them up a winding path that wrapped around the mountainside until they reached a large pond and a stone door that had been carved out of the rock. They began to unpack and to make camp for the night. Jon and Helen built a fire while Basira hunted rabbits for stew. Melanie, Sasha, and Daisy stared at the door.

“What does it say?” Helen asked, after they had stared at it for a long while.

“It’s in Elvish,” Daisy explained. “I don’t speak it.”

“I do,” said Sasha. “It says ‘Speak, friend, and enter.’ It requires a password of some sort.”

As she explained, Michael waded into the pond to fish. When Daisy had brought back a rabbit for stew, she waded out to join him. They stood calf-deep in the water. Jon watched them with curiosity as they began catching fish with their hands, competing to see who could catch them faster. Daisy was incredible, catching fish like a cat catching mice. Helen shouted encouragement from beside him, though her words did little to improve Michael’s ability; Daisy was just too skilled.

“Hmm,” said Sasha after about an hour of guesswork. “You know, I’ve tried just about every combination of ‘open,’ ‘unlock,’ and ‘reveal’ that I can think of, and nothing’s working on this damn door.”

“What did it say again?” Martin asked.

Sasha told him, and he started to laugh. 

“What is it?” Basira asked.

“It’s a riddle,” he said. “Basira, what’s the Elvish word for ‘friend’?”

Sasha spoke it, staff raised, and the door began to glow. Tim whistled, then shouted, “Martin, you’re a genius!”

They finished cooking dinner under the moonlight, then gathered their things once more and peered into the inky blackness of the mines. It was so dark that Jon could hardly see a foot past the door. In fact, as he thought about it, he could almost see tendrils of darkness reaching out past their boundaries, and he turned to Sasha.

“Is this the Dark?” he asked.

Sasha nodded. “Something bad happened here,” she said. “Should we risk the pass?”

As she spoke, they all heard a yell from behind them.

Jon whipped around to see Michael hacking at a long, fleshy tentacle with the sword that the elves had given him. He was scrambling back out of the pond, but as he went, he tripped on a patch of mud. The tentacle plucked him from the ground and lifted him into the air. Another two tentacles erupted from the water and began to pull at his limbs as though toying with their food.

Basira loosed an arrow, and Melanie waded into the pond, sword drawn. Sasha shouted for the others to get back, but it was too late: Jon and Helen had both stepped forward, swords raised uncertainly. In a flash, another tentacle wrapped itself around Jon and lifted him into the air.

Jon’s stomach dropped. He struggled against the fleshy tentacle as it squeezed him so tightly that he felt one of his ribs break. He lost track of the others as the tentacle whipped him through the air, flipping him and spinning him until he could no longer tell which direction was up. He heard a vague shouting, and then the sharp _thwack_ of an arrow piercing flesh. The tentacle loosened, and Jon fell.

He hit the pond water with a splash. Too dizzy to swim, he tried to let his natural buoyancy bring him to the surface. It didn’t work, as weighed down with equipment and swords as he was, but luckily he felt a pair of strong arms close around him and pull him from the dark water. He surfaced with a sharp gasp and then fell into a coughing fit, which sent waves of pain rolling through his chest. Martin pulled him back toward the shore.

Jon managed to blink the water out of his eyes in time to see Michael being pulled from the water by a sopping wet Sasha. Martin hooked an arm around Jon and helped him stumble back toward the door to the mines. Daisy pressed them on while Tim hacked at a tentacle that had erupted from the water to follow them. Sasha shoved Michael toward the entrance to the mines and Helen grabbed his hand to pull him back. Basira, Melanie, and Sasha backed away quickly, keeping their weapons ready to fend off the Flesh.

“Get inside!” Sasha shouted.

Martin helped Jon hobble into the mouth of the mines, then as far as they could go before the Dark became all-consuming. The rest joined them one by one, dodging the tentacles as best they could. Just before Sasha managed to sprint inside, the tentacles crashed against the door. The tremor they set off rattled Jon to his core, and a low rumble began to roll through the hall.

“Get away from the door!” Tim yelled. They all scrambled back, unable to watch for where to let their feet fall. The rocks tumbled, and Jon watched as the last rays of light were blotted out.

The darkness settled around them, cold and final as the grave. They all paused for a moment to catch their breaths and to shout to the others that they were still alive. Jon and Martin clung to each other in the darkness. Jon began to shiver as the damp seeped into his clothes. Martin wrapped his arms around Jon when he noticed, and Jon melted a bit into his warmth.

“Anyone have a light?” Daisy asked.

“I’m _trying,_ ” said Tim. “The torch is catching, but I can’t see anything!”

“That’s because it’s not regular darkness,” said Sasha.

“Oh, so what, it’s _advanced_ darkness?” Tim asked.

Sasha muttered something, and then the empty hall was filled with a bright white light, emitted from the end of her staff. “There we go,” she said. “Sometimes being a wizard has its perks.”

Jon coughed and untangled himself from Martin’s arms. Martin didn’t fight him, but he did seem to deflate a bit, which made Jon’s stomach heavy with guilt.

“If the mines have been overtaken by the Dark, there’s a chance it’s only waiting to strike,” said Melanie. “We’ll need to stick together. Everyone, stay by Sasha’s light.”

Daisy peered into the shadows. “I don’t think we’re going to find any survivors. Might find some monsters, though.”

“We’ll want to move quickly,” said Sasha, nodding at Daisy’s comment. “Hopefully, the Dark is the only thing in this place; we’ll just move through it, and hopefully our fear combined will be enough for it to let us go.”

They crept forward with Sasha leading the way. Jon and Michael shivered until Martin and Melanie offered up their mostly-dry coats. Sasha’s staff gave them a small bubble of light, which didn’t reach nearly as far as Jon thought it should.

“That’s disappointing,” Jon said. “I’ve read that the architecture here was rather stunning.”

“How so?” Martin asked.

Jon rambled for a bit about arches. Normally, someone would have stopped him, but if the Darkness was intimidating even to someone as brave as Melanie, Jon figured everyone would appreciate the distraction. Tim began to profess his love for some ancient architect named Robert Smirke, which led to a rather interesting argument about the advantages and disadvantages of above-ground homes. Daisy chipped in with some old stories that her father used to tell her about the mines, and soon everyone was exchanging stories and jokes like they had since they’d left Rivendell, grateful not to have to think about the Dark surrounding them.

After a while, they came to a place where Sasha decided they would rest. They set up camp and a watch and took turns sleeping, each relishing the reprieve from their trek. When Helen gently shook Jon’s shoulder to wake him for his watch, he made his way over to Sasha and sat sleepily beside her.

“How are you, Jon?” she asked.

Jon shrugged. “It’s been difficult,” he said. “I’m very tired, and we still have so long to go.”

“The journey will worsen before its end,” said Sasha. “I only hope… Well. I think you will make it through, in the end.”

“You hope what?” Jon asked, but Sasha shook her head.

“Here,” she said. She handed Jon her staff. It continued to pulse with white light, though it grew dimmer as he took it. “I’m going to sleep for a few hours, right here. If that starts to go out, wake me up.”

Jon sat there alone for a time, peering out into the nothingness that surrounded them. If he squinted, he could almost see shadows moving through the darkness, though he was certain they were only a product of the Dark’s desire to frighten him. When he blinked, they disappeared, and Jon decided it would be best to keep his eyes on his companions for a while.

Jon didn’t notice that the light was growing dimmer until its circle had begun to shrink past the place where Basira and Daisy had curled up together. Jon watched as the light retreated, faster now that he had noticed it, and for some reason–Fear? Curiosity?–he did not reach for Sasha’s arm.

The light faded until he was the only one inside it, and then it went out, and everything was dark.

For some reason, the darkness seemed to burn his eyes, as though he were staring into the sun. It fell on Jon like a heavy blanket. For a moment, he wondered if he had ever really seen anything at all; the darkness was so complete, so all-encompassing, that Jon thought perhaps that the sun and stars had all burned out millions of years ago and that the universe was simply dark, had always been and would always be.

“Sasha!” Daisy cried. “We’re surrounded!”

Sasha awoke, swearing loudly, and grabbed the staff from Jon. She filled the hall with light, which was enough to shock Jon out of his stupor. Jon quickly peered around to ensure that all of his companions were present, and they were, but surrounding them were thousands of horrifying cloth mannequins—human-sized and human-shaped, but with faces so grotesque that Jon could hardly bear to look at them, especially as his eyes still burned from the darkness.

“Run!” Sasha shouted, and all hell broke loose.

They all scrambled for their things as Sasha blasted a beam of light down the path, sending the mannequins scurrying. They followed her as quickly as they could down winding halls and ancient corridors, even as the path sloped down further into the mountain. Jon blinked strange dark shapes out of his eyes as he ran.

“Ahead!” Tim yelled. Jon glanced at the hall ahead of them and spotted what Tim had pointed out: a small tunnel that branched off the main hall, which nearly disappeared into the wall. The mannequins had begun to climb the pillars of the great hall, their cloth limbs filling the hall with a soft and horrible susurrus.

They sprinted down the tunnel, which, thankfully, sloped upwards. “I think I know where this goes,” Sasha shouted. “We’re heading for an exit.”

The tunnel opened into another hall, this one crumbled and ancient and crawling with mannequins. There was a long bridge across a chasm so dark that Jon could hardly comprehend it, even after having stared at the Dark in the hallway behind them. Basira and Tim fired arrows at the mannequins that came close, and Melanie and Daisy kept their sword and axe drawn, occasionally taking a swing at the mannequins that made it past their archers. As they neared the bridge, Tim gestured the hobbits to the front, and they all began to sprint across. Just as Jon reached the middle of the bridge, a mannequin dropped in front of him.

This one was distinct from the others. She wore a red robe that closely resembled Sasha’s grey one, and had the bright makeup and face paint of a clown.

“Hello, Jon!” she said cheerfully.

Jon stopped in his tracks. Behind him, the others stopped as well. The mannequin turned to look at each of them, then took a step toward Jon.

“Stop,” he said, his heart racing.

“Silly,” said the mannequin. “You’re going to have to make me!”

From deep within himself, Jon heard a whisper. He wasn’t sure exactly who was whispering, but in that moment, he heard the voice so clearly that it felt impossible to ignore.

“ _Put on the Crown,_ ” it whispered.

Jon’s hand wandered toward his pocket. When his fingers brushed against it, the mannequin paused.

“Oh?” she asked.

Just brushing against the Crown was enough to make that shadowy world flash behind Jon’s eyes. “ _Stop,_ ” he said, feeling a strange power tug at the back of his throat. “ _Leave us alone._ ”

The mannequin paused. The others held their breaths for a moment. Jon felt that power dance over his tongue once again, but it was just barely out of reach. Perhaps if he wore the Crown…?

Before he could decide, the mannequin laughed again. “Silly,” reaching for him with a knife in her hand. “Give me the Crown, and die!”

The knife pierced Jon’s stomach and twisted. Distantly, Jon heard one of the others shout. His head grew foggy with pain, and he dropped to his knees. The mannequin pulled the sword from his belly and laughed.

“Get away from him!” someone—Tim?—shouted. Jon coughed on blood and bile, clutching at the new hole in his stomach, and turned to look as the mannequin stepped over his body.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sasha shouted.

“Surely you’ve realized the Eye is going to win,” the mannequin said. “Even I wasn’t foolish enough to miss that, eh? Besides, the Stranger’s so much stronger with a wizard on its side.”

“Nikola the Red,” said Sasha. “You were so wise, once. What happened?”

“I grew up,” said Nikola. “I saw the warning signs, and I heeded them! Oh, silly Sasha, don’t you see? You’ve already lost!”

“We haven’t,” said Sasha. As she raised her staff, she glanced meaningfully at Tim. He began to walk forward slowly. Nikola stood aside to let him pass; her focus was entirely on Sasha.

“The fears are more powerful than you can possibly understand,” said Nikola. “It won’t go down without a fight! Right now, a poor, innocent hobbit lies dead by my feet. Don’t you think that’s enough? Hand over the Crown, and I’ll let the rest of them go!”

“Let the others past you, first,” said Sasha.

“Oh, Sasha,” said Nikola. “Don’t you see that I hold all the cards?”

“You don’t,” said Sasha. Suddenly, she held up a small object. Through the haze of blood loss and Darkness, Jon realized it was one of the many rings she always wore. She clenched it in her fist and held it over the chasm, her hand shaking.

“Silly Sasha,” said Nikola, “what are you doing? Your little hobbit has the Crown, not you!”

Sasha shook her head. “Why would I trust a hobbit with that kind of power?” she asked. “I’m the one who compelled you, not him. You think he could influence something as powerful as you?”

Nikola cocked her head. “You’re trying to trick me! That’s a very dangerous game, Sasha!”

“Are you willing to take that risk?”

“Silly Sasha,” said Nikola, but she seemed to be considering Sasha’s words.

“If I drop this,” said Sasha, “then the Dark gets it, and you have nothing. Would you really like to miss out on that reward?”

Nikola took a step forward. “You won’t drop it,” she said. “You wouldn’t give it to the Dark, not without a fight.”

Sasha shrugged. “The way I see it, I have two options,” she said. “Either I let you take it, or I throw it into the Dark. Either way, I’ve lost. At least if I drop it, you lose, too.”

Nikola tilted her cloth head. “You think I believe you?”

“Let them pass, Nikola,” said Sasha. “Let them go, and I’ll hand you the Crown. I know when I’ve lost. You were always wiser, but I’m not a fool.”

“No,” said Nikola thoughtfully. “You’re not. All right, then! They can pass, but you stay there. I’m not in the mood for trickery today! So sorry about that!”

Tim hoisted Jon up on his shoulder, and Melanie, Daisy, and Basira joined them. They all began to cross the bridge, though Tim kept turning back to look at Sasha. When they’d reached the other side, Tim turned.

Sasha laughed. “Oh, Nikola,” she said. “You always _did_ underestimate people, didn’t you?”

She hoisted her staff into the air and brought it down onto the bridge, which cracked beneath her. Nikola sprung forward, her hands sharp as knives as they raked down Sasha’s face. The bridge began to crumble, and Tim took a step forward.

“Sasha!” he shouted, but it was too late. The bridge gave way, and Sasha and Nikola fell, arm in arm.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Skinning, blood

“Come on!” Melanie yelled, tugging at Tim’s arm. “We have to run!”

The mannequins were closing in. Jon hung limply from Tim’s shoulder as he ran, too pained to do anything more than concentrate on breathing. He caught flashes of the tunnels as they ran, though his mind was still reeling with the image of Sasha falling, Nikola peeling at the side of her face as though taking off a mask.

Then they were out, and the sun shone down on them again, and nothing followed them out of the Dark. Tim collapsed a few steps from the tunnel and let out a scream so pained and horrible that Jon wished he couldn’t hear it. Instead, he just gasped through the pain in his abdomen, which, though it had lessened somewhat, was still a shock.

“Jon!” someone cried, and then there were hands on him, pulling up his shirt and pressing down on the wound with some sort of fabric. Jon groaned in pain, and someone laid a cool hand over his forehead.

“It’s going to be all right,” Martin said, somewhere near his ear. “You’re going to be fine, Jon. Breathe.”

Someone else was yelling—Melanie, maybe? Jon tried to concentrate on Martin’s hand in his hair. The pain in his abdomen faded a bit more, and Jon began to panic, wondering if he was losing the feeling in his body, if the life was slowly leaking out of him like blood from a wound. He let out another sound, and Martin pressed his lips to Jon’s forehead, shushing him quietly.

“What the hell is going on?” said Daisy, somewhere near Jon’s other side. “It’s closing up. I don’t understand.”

“That’s impossible,” said Melanie. “Basira, keep pressure on that.”

“No, look,” said Daisy. Her voice grew clearer with every word. “The bleeding’s stopped, and the wound is closing up. He’s healing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Melanie. “He should be dead. How is he alive?”

“Sasha saved him,” said Tim. “Sasha… She…”

“I know, Stoker,” said Melanie. “We don’t have time to mourn right now. Basira, bandage Jon. Daisy, Helen, divide his things and Tim’s. Tim, you’re going to have to carry Jon. We need to reach Lothlorien by nightfall, or those things will come after us.”

“They aren’t agents of the Dark,” said Helen. “Why aren’t they chasing us now?”

“I think they’re scared,” said Melanie.

“Of _us?_ ”

“No,” said Melanie. She glanced down at the ground just as Jon’s vision began to clear, though those Dark spots hadn’t faded. “I think they’re scared of him.”

  


* * *

  


They reached Lothlorien just as darkness fell in the forest. Jon clung to Tim’s back as well as he could, but he was exhausted. The others seemed to be just as tired; Jon was glad when they finally reached the elven city and were escorted to the throne of one Adelard Dekker.

Dekker was an old man, and he did not stand when they greeted him. Instead, he nodded to each of them in turn before focusing his sights on Jon.

“You bear a heavy burden,” he said. “It has protected you today, but do not be mistaken; it has no goodwill, and will turn on you in an instant if that will bring it back to its master.”

Jon nodded. “I understand,” he said.

Dekker turned to each of the hobbits in turn. “I have been informed of the passing of my friend Gertrude Robinson,” he said. “I was very sorry to hear of her loss. Your presence is a comfort to me, though that may seem odd to you. You will all have a place to sleep tonight, and plenty of good food and mead. A friend of Gertrude’s is a friend of mine.

“But I was informed that there were nine of you. Tell me, where is Sasha, for I much desire to speak with her.”

Tim stepped forward and knelt before Dekker, his eyes full of tears. “Sasha fell today,” he said. “She was taken by the Stranger and plunged into Darkness. She died protecting us. I wish we could have saved her, but we were powerless to try.”

“I see,” said Dekker. “This is a great sadness, and its echo shall be felt in every footstep you take as you proceed on your quest. Sasha I did not know as Gertrude did, but I still liked her very much. She was an admirable wizard, and a better friend, and her kindness shall be missed.”

“Thank you,” said Tim, though he didn’t sound very grateful. Adelard summoned a group of servants to bring them to their quarters for the night. Jon gratefully accepted the ornate wheelchair that they provided for him and let Martin wheel him toward their room.

It was the first time they had slept in a bed in weeks. Jon lay down on the soft mattress and groaned.

“You all right?” Martin whispered.

“Fine,” said Jon, though he wasn’t. “Just happy to sleep indoors, for once.”

“Yeah,” said Martin. “G’night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Jon slept deeply, dreaming of Strange hands pulling at his flesh, until he was awoken by a sob. His eyes shot open and his hand went to his waist, seeking a sword that wasn’t there. There was another sob in the darkness, and Jon peered around the room until he found its source.

Tim sat in the corner, huddled into a ball. He had pressed one hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his grief, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked so frightened, so alone, so unlike the jolly, strong man that Jon knew, that for a moment Jon didn’t recognize him. Jon dithered, unsure of whether he should get up and offer comfort, but the decision was made for him when he felt the mattress behind him shift.

Silently, Martin crept over to the corner where Tim sat and offered him a handkerchief. Tim accepted it with shaking hands. He wiped his face and took a shaky breath as Martin sat beside him, pressed against him shoulder-to-hip.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin.

Tim shook his head. “Not your fault,” he managed. “She was trying to protect him.”

Jon’s heart sank in his chest. If it hadn’t been for him—If they’d chosen someone else to carry the ring, someone _better—_

“It’s not his fault any more than it is mine,” said Martin.

Tim’s shaking got worse, and Jon wondered if he shook out of fear, grief, or fury.

“I know,” he said. “I know, but I just need her to be _here._ ”

“Nikola wanted to kill her, Tim. She would have managed it in any case. There’s nothing any of us could have done.”

"I should have used the ring," Tim said. "I should have taken it from Jon, I should have volunteered to carry it, or forced Sasha to let us use it—"

"Tim," Martin mumbled.

“How come _he’s_ alive?” Tim gasped. “How come Jon gets to live, and Sasha’s gone?”

“I don’t know,” said Martin. “It’s not fair. But it’s also not his fault. It's not any of our faults. It's Nikola's fault. That's all. I'm so sorry."

Tim stood so suddenly that Martin jumped. Jon barely managed to repress the urge to run, to get away from the anger in Tim’s eyes. It was a fury that could kill; was he safe, even in this room full of people? Or did the others blame him for Sasha’s death as well, for not carrying the Crown like a hero? For using its power to heal, even when it had used its power to kill their friend?

“I’m going for a walk,” Tim muttered. He left the room quietly but purposefully. Martin watched him go with tears in his eyes, then took a deep breath and walked back to bed, careful not to disturb Jon as he climbed back in.

Jon didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Weapons/combat, The Flesh

The sun rose on a beautiful autumn morning. The leaves in the forest of Lothlorien had not yet begun to turn. The sunlight fell green-gold on the forest floor as they walked silently on, led by one of the elves of Lothlorien. He brought them to a set of wooden canoes, which they accepted gratefully. The river was wide and calm, and the rocking of the boats sent Jon into a peaceful doze.

He awoke when they switched rowers, and then again as the sun began to set. Melanie ordered them to the riverbank and found a place to camp for the night. The air grew cool, and Jon shivered in his pack, his stomach still aching from his wound. Though he had protested at first, he was grateful that he hadn’t been made to row. Martin still fussed over him, but Jon found that he didn’t mind it as much.

They spent two days travelling down the river. Near noon on the second day, they passed two great statues of men standing before the river, hands outstretched.

“The old kings of Gondor,” Melanie explained. “We’re passing into the realm of Man.”

They rowed past the statues and to the shore on the other side. Ahead, mist rose from a large waterfall. They’d be making the next stretch of their journey on foot; Jon wasn’t exactly excited about this, but he was grateful to be moving forward. They unpacked their things from the canoes and decided to rest for lunch.

While they were resting, Jon decided to go for a walk and stretch his sore stomach. He wandered a little way into the woods, careful to leave marks on the trees so that he could find his way back. After a few minutes, he came to a clearing around the stone foundation of an old home that had rotted away, so covered in moss that it could hardly be seen through the covering of grass, leaves, and soil that dotted the forest floor. Jon sat for a while, winded, before standing to make his way back to camp.

As he turned away from the house, he spotted Tim standing at the tree line, leaning against his sword. When he noticed Jon staring, he stood upright.

“The others were looking for you,” said Tim. “We have to go.”

Jon took a cautious step forward. The horrible rage that had filled Tim’s eyes that night in Lothlorien seemed to have faded, replaced by the dullness of grief and exhaustion. Jon wondered when he had last slept.

“All right,” said Jon. He took another step forward, and Tim swung his sword absently at some leaves.

“Did you have a nice walk?” Tim asked flatly.

“Fine enough,” said Jon. He sighed. “Tim, what do you want from me?”

“Hmm?” Tim asked, as though he hadn’t heard.

Jon slipped his hand into his pocket and traced the Crown with his fingertip. “ _What do you want from me?_ ” Jon asked.

The question felt _odd,_ somehow, tinged with power and sweet as honey. It reminded Jon of that moment with Nikola, where power had tickled at the back of his throat. With a dull expression, Tim said, “I want to kill you, and to take the ring back to Gondor. I want to give it to my parents so that their surviving son can finally make them proud. I want Sasha back, but that won’t happen, so I want you to _choke._ ” He started, his eyes widening with fear, and then more of that anger. “What… what did you just do to me?”

Jon took a step back, shaking his head. “I— I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“What the _hell_ did you just do to me, Jon?” Tim roared.

Jon turned and sprinted, his heart beating out of his chest. He’d only made it a few steps when Tim flung himself at Jon, tackling him to the ground. Jon struggled from under him, but only managed to wedge himself further underneath Tim as Tim brought his sword to Jon’s throat.

“You _fucking_ monster,” Tim snarled. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re not Jon, and even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. _You killed my friend._ ”

“I didn’t!” Jon gasped. “Tim, _please._ ”

“I’m going to _fucking_ destroy you, Jonathan Sims,” Tim growled.

Jon managed to turn and bring his elbow up to Tim’s nose. Tim flinched, giving Jon just enough room to wriggle out from underneath him. He reached into his pocket and slipped the Crown onto his finger, and the world faded into shadow.

Tim’s silhouette turned, its sword drawn. Over his heart was a small cluster of fire, burning white-hot and terrifying. Jon stumbled away from him and back towards the camp.

Behind him, Tim shouted his name.

  


* * *

  


“Where _are_ they?” Michael asked, peering into the forest.

“They should be back by now,” said Martin nervously. Across from him, Melanie exchanged a glance with Basira, then nodded.

“I’ll go looking for them,” she said. “Everyone else, stay here.”

She disappeared into the woods. Martin reorganized his pack for the fifth time in an attempt to keep his hands busy. Ten minutes ticked by, and when Melanie still hadn’t returned, he stood.

“Right,” he said. “Something’s going on. We need to go look for them.”

“No,” said Basira. “Melanie told us to stay here, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

“What if something’s happened to them?” Martin protested. “What if they were captured?”

“Tim has his stupid horn,” said Basira, “and Melanie’s too quick to get captured. If something happens, we’ll know.”

“I’m going to look for them,” said Martin. “You can come with me or not. I think something’s happened, and I’m going to find out what it was.”

“You’ll stay _here,_ ” said Basira, “or I’ll let Daisy sharpen her axe on you.” Daisy bared her teeth.

“So, what, we just stay here and do nothing? What if they’re in trouble?”

“If we go anywhere, we do it together,” said Basira. “I’m not letting you wander off and get lost in the woods because you miss your boyfriend.”

“My _what?_ ” Martin scoffed. Helen sniggered behind her hand.

“Oh, come on,” said Daisy. “It’s obvious you’re both pining for each other. Just get over yourselves and get together, Christ.”

“As if you haven’t been mooning over Basira the whole time we’ve been travelling together,” said Martin.

“Wait,” said Basira, “ _what?_ ”

“You know what I mean,” said Martin. “The two of you have been yearning this whole time. Why not just bite the bullet and get together? It’s like every time I see you two, you’re gazing at the other one longingly behind their back.”

“No,” said Basira, “you don’t understand. Martin, we’re _married._ ”

“What?” Martin asked.

Daisy snorted. “We’ve been married for five years, Martin. We live together.”

“Oh,” said Martin. He could feel his cheeks growing hot. “I, uh, didn’t know that.”

“I’ve kissed her, like, six times a day since we started this stupid quest,” said Basira.

“Oi,” said Daisy, “not to interrupt Martin’s stunning revelation, but where did Michael and Helen go?”

Martin turned. Sure enough, Michael and Helen had vanished.

“Damn it,” said Basira. From the woods came the sound of a horn blowing, over and over as though its owner were frantic. “ _Damn it._ ”

“Stay by the boats, Martin,” said Daisy. “C’mon, Basira.”

Together, they vanished into the trees, and then Martin was alone.

  


* * *

  


Michael and Helen crept through the underbrush.

“Jon?” Helen shout-whispered. “Joooooon?”

“I don’t think he’s going to hear that,” said Michael.

“Shut up and help me find him,” said Helen. “Jon?”

They came to a clearing, in the center of which lay the ruins of an old stone house. Tim sat on the corner, his head in his hands.

“Oh, Tim,” said Michael. “Did you find Jon?”

“I’m so sorry,” Tim whispered. “I didn’t mean to… I don’t know why I…”

“Where’s Jon?” Michael asked, growing nervous. Beside him, Helen rested her hand on her sword. Tim noticed and stood, taking a step back.

“You have to understand,” he said, “that wasn’t _me._ I don’t know what came over me. I was just so _angry,_ and I just wanted to _destroy_ him, and I don’t understand–”

“What did you do?” Helen asked.

“I tried to kill him,” Tim said hoarsely. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. He put on the ring and ran away.”

“Shit,” said Helen. “Okay. You need to go back to the camp with us. Melanie can track him, or Basira. I’m sure he’s just gotten a bit turned around.”

Tim shook his head, and tears shone in his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he gasped. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Michael opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, an arrow whizzed past his face and embedded itself in a tree somewhere to his right.

Michael turned, and what he saw nearly sent him screaming. It was an army of creatures, humanoid in shape but made of what looked to be cloth and flesh intermingled, like bags of raw meat seeping with blood. They were far larger than the creatures that had stalked them through Moria, but Michael could sense that same Fear seeping through the air and injecting his heart with cold dread. He could smell them, too, all filth and putrescence and rotting things, strong enough to make him nauseous.

“Run!” Tim shouted, and the creatures surged forward.

Whether by instinct or by choice, Michael drew his sword. He stumbled back, keeping one hand clasped around Helen’s wrist. Tim drew his sword with one hand and pulled a curved horn from his waist with the other. He brought it to his lips and blew frantically. The sound set Michael’s teeth on edge, but it was worse when it ended, cut off by one of the creatures swinging its sword.

“Run!” Tim yelled again. He shoved one of the creatures away with the flat of his sword and swung it in a wide arc around him. It caught another creature in its stomach, which spilled something foul onto the ground, red and raw and putrid.

Tim fought valiantly, but he was pressed back time and time again by the creatures. Michael and Helen retreated to the tree line only to be cut off by another swarm, these ones with smiling faces painted on like a child’s drawing. Michael screamed as it wrapped its arms around him and lifted him into the air. Behind him, he heard Helen’s shout of surprise as well, though it was cut off, sending panic rushing through his heart.

“Oi!” Tim yelled. Michael screamed again, but then something solid slammed against his head, and everything went dark.

  


* * *

  


When Melanie stumbled onto Tim, alone and surrounded by Strange beings of Flesh, her heart nearly stopped.

Immediately, she pulled out her sword and began to hack at the nearest creatures. From somewhere to her left, she heard a scream that ended as quickly as it began. She turned to see the creatures carrying Michael and Helen away and began to fight her way towards them, slicing the heads and arms off as many of the creatures as she could. Before long, she was joined by Basira and Daisy, who made short work of the tiny group of creatures that hadn’t followed Michael and Helen’s captors into the forest.

“We have to go after them,” Basira gasped. “I can track them. We’ll have to hurry if we want to catch up before it gets dark.”

“What about Jon?” Daisy asked.

Melanie turned to look at Tim. He was covered in blood, though how much of it was his remained unclear. He was holding his arm at an awkward angle, and he looked entirely too pale.

“All right, Tim?” she asked.

“Jon’s gone,” he gasped. “I drove him off. I’m so sorry, Melanie. I don’t know why I did it. And now they’ve got the hobbits, and it’s all my fault.”

Melanie glanced at Basira and Daisy, who were both bruised and exhausted. “All right,” she said. “We’re heading back to camp, and we’re doing some basic first aid, and then we’re going after Michael and Helen.”

“What about Jon?” Daisy asked again.

“I think Jon’s going to be going on this mission alone,” said Melanie. “Sasha said… Well, she said a lot of things, but she told me she suspected Jon would have to journey by himself, at some point. We can’t very well sneak nine people into Mordor. I’m sure he’s safe, though.”

Daisy’s expression hardened. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Tim glared at her, then shook his head and turned back to Melanie. “Are you sure he’s all right?”

“We’ll go back to camp,” said Melanie. “If his things are gone, it means he took them. If not, we can go looking for him before we go after the others.”

They did just that, and when they arrived at the camp, Jon’s pack was indeed missing. It was not the only thing missing, though; one of the boats was gone, along with Martin and his pack.

“At least he’s not alone,” Basira pointed out.

Tim glared at her. “They have no idea what they’re doing,” he said. “They’re going to get themselves killed.”

“Nothing we can do about it now,” said Daisy.

Melanie nodded. “She’s right. We’re going after Michael and Helen. Jon and Martin’s quest is out of our hands, now.”

Even as she spoke, she turned her eyes toward Gondor.

  


* * *

  


Jon sneaked back toward camp as quietly as he could, avoiding fallen twigs and dried leaves in an attempt to keep his position hidden. The sound of Tim’s horn nearly drove him back, but he was already at the campsite; he figured that he would be of little use to Tim, and was worried that Tim’s horn only served to alert the others to Jon’s absence.

He slid the Crown off his finger and gathered his things as quickly as he could. The others had vanished, but he had no idea if or when they’d return, and explaining his departure to the others would only lead to delays.

He felt bad about taking one of the canoes, but they were already at the end of the canoes’ utility, and besides, the others would fit in the two that remained. Pushing it into the water was difficult, but his grandmother had lived beside a river, and Jon had quite a lot of practice with boats. Jumping in was the easiest thing in the world. He began to row himself toward the other shore, unwilling or unable to look back.

That is, he refused to look back until he heard the rather loud splashing from behind him.

A glance behind revealed Martin, jumping into the water with reckless abandon and shouting for Jon to wait. Jon frowned, watching as Martin’s coat swirled in the water, and turned to face him.

“I have to do this alone, Martin!” he shouted.

“Of course you do,” said Martin, rolling his eyes, “and I’m coming with you!”

“You can’t _swim,_ ” Jon pointed out, but even as he said it, Martin’s head slipped beneath the gentle waves.

Jon panicked. He tore off his cloak and overcoat and dove, headfirst, into the water. Martin fought for the surface, his arms windmilling uselessly at his sides. Jon caught him under the arms and heaved him towards the surface with two powerful frog kicks, using his own natural buoyancy to bring them back into the sunlight. Martin coughed and clung to his shoulders. Jon pulled them both back towards the both and helped Martin in, then heaved himself aboard and grabbed Martin’s hands.

“Why did you do that?” he shouted.

Martin’s eyes were full of tears. It broke Jon’s heart. “You shouldn’t have to do this on your own,” he said. “Sasha told me to protect you, and that’s what I’m doing. I know I'm never good enough, and I know I'm annoying, and I know I'm not as strong as the rest of you, but I don't _care_. I’m with you ‘til the end, Jonathan Sims.”

Jon stared at Martin for a moment. Water droplets hung in his hair, reflecting the sunlight like a hundred glittering stars. Martin's hands were shaking in Jon's. He squeezed them gently. “You foolish, foolish man, Martin Blackwood,” he said, and then he pulled Martin into an embrace. "I shouldn't have acted that way. You've been invaluable. I don't know what I would have done without you.."

They shivered together for a moment before Martin pulled away and wiped his damp face with his soaked jumper. Jon smiled, grabbed his overcoat from beside him, and used it to wipe the water from Martin's forehead. When he was satisfied that Martin wouldn't catch his death, Jon took up his oar once more and began to row them towards the opposite shore.

He glanced up at Martin’s frightened face. Martin's eyes were still glued to the shore behind them. Jon reached forward and squeezed his hand once more.

“I’m… glad you’re here, Martin. Truly, I am.”

Martin smiled. Jon smiled back. For a moment, he felt as though some peace was possible, as though he would someday return to his peaceful life in the Shire with Martin and his friends beside him. For a shining moment, Jonathan Sims was filled with hope.

In the distance, the clouds above Mordor darkened.


End file.
